


Sweetest Tongue Has Sharpest Tooth

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace Subtype: Mostly No But Sometimes Yes, Alternate Universe, Anthro Kink, Brief non-consensual humping, But Apparently Werewolves, Canon Asexual Character, Communication Issues (But They're Trying!), Consensual Non-Consent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Frottage, Furry Porn, Kinky Ace Jon, M/M, Martin Blackwood: Werewolf Boyfriend, Masturbation, No Fear Gods, Oral Sex, Relationship Negotiation, Sex Toys, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vaginal Sex, discussion of asexuality, werewolf/human sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: The creature lifts its head slowly, drowsily, its lips pulling back to show sharp white teeth. Jon can feel the scream gathering behind his own teeth, and then its eyes open lazily, soft blue and achingly familiar as they focus on Jon, and all the breath goes out of him at once.“Martin?” he manages to whisper.*Jon and Martin learn some new things about each other and their relationship.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 192
Kudos: 588





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by conversation with the good, horny folks of 'Archive Me, Daddy', and completed with encouragement (and beta-reading) from the always wonderful [fatal_drum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum). 
> 
> In case it is not abundantly clear from the tags, this fic features a human having sex with a werewolf, as well as descriptions of porn and sexual fantasies revolving around human/anthropomorphic animal sex. Please be warned.
> 
> Title is from "The Company Of Wolves". 
> 
> Terms used for Jon’s genitals are: cock, cunt, hole.

Thursday after work they go to the Peruvian restaurant near Jon’s flat. He’s been threatening to take Martin there ever since finding out he’s never eaten yuca fries, which in Jon’s estimation is no way to go through life. Martin enjoys the food with enthusiastic relish, much to Jon’s delight; he’s always a touch nervous when he convinces someone to try something new, in case they don’t like it. 

They talk about nothing important: the documentary about horseshoe crabs that Jon watched last night, the cooking class that Martin’s started taking on Tuesdays. Martin gives a dramatic blow-by-blow account of the library’s latest reshelving controversy that has Jon almost in tears with laughter. Jon tells him about the alleged haunting he’s been assigned to research in a Hackney office block, which he strongly suspects is caused by infrasound from the building’s air conditioning.

“You know, for a paranormal researcher you’re awfully unwilling to believe in the spooky side of things,” Martin teases him. 

“If I believed in ghost stories without hard evidence, I wouldn’t be doing my job,” Jon says, gesturing pointedly with a chunk of yuca. “I’ve been a researcher for six years, and I haven’t yet encountered a single supernatural occurrence that didn’t have a mundane explanation.”

“What would you do if you did?” asks Martin, tilting his head curiously. “If you found something that genuinely couldn’t be explained away?” 

“Then...I suppose I would have to readjust my world view.” Jon pops the crispy fry into his mouth, and Martin gives a thoughtful _hmm_. 

They linger over a shared dessert of crema volteada, rich with flavors of caramel and vanilla, and afterwards Martin insists on walking Jon home before he catches his train. It’s a charming, old-fashioned gesture, and Jon can admit—only to himself, mind—that it feels nice to be looked after like this. The summer twilight is humid and hot, and Jon links his arm through Martin’s, lets himself lean into Martin as they walk. 

On Jon’s front step, Martin turns and kisses him, caramel sweet and tender in a way that sends warmth curling down Jon’s spine to his belly. They kiss for a while, and when Martin steps back he looks terribly pleased with himself. Jon can guess why, from the heat in his face and the way his lips are buzzing with sensation. He rolls his eyes fondly. 

“Yes, all right,” he says, “You’re still an excellent kisser. No need to be smug about it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Martin says cheerfully. He leans in and pecks Jon on the cheek, which somehow makes him flush even hotter. “Night, Jon!”

“You didn’t need to,” Jon retorts, opening the door. “Text me when you get home.” 

As soon as he’s inside, Jon strips and heads for the bathroom. Walking home in the muggy heat has him feeling sticky and uncomfortable, so he takes a shower with the water just shading into cold, then goes and lies on the bed still damp, limbs starfished across the duvet. The window is open, but there’s no breeze to speak of; he really should invest in an electric fan. 

One hand flops over to rest on his belly, stroking idly over skin and coarse hair. Jon sighs, and slides it lower, until his fingertips are just resting against his cock. He presses against it experimentally, feeling a twinge of heat as he does. He’s been slightly horny all day, for no particular reason. His libido is more predictable than it used to be, these days, but it can still surprise him.

He rubs at his cock, feeling it swell under his touch. Jon considers for a moment, biting his lip. He could just get himself off quickly, to avoid getting all sweaty again. But he’s in the mood for more.

He fetches his laptop and lubricant, and selects a toy: dark red and veined, with a tapered head. The shaft is not particularly thick or long, and the main attraction is near the base: a large, round knot that promises a delicious stretch.

When Jon is feeling adventurous, he’ll trawl through one of the better anthro porn sites and see if anything takes his fancy. That can be an exercise in frustration, however; his interests are specific and not easily defined, and can best be described as _I’ll know it when I see it._ He doesn’t feel like trying his luck tonight, with the oppressive heat and arousal itching beneath his skin, so he goes straight to his own curated collection.

Most of the images come from artists he supports on patreon, including a number of pieces he commissioned himself, with a few rare finds from the wild. Each of them features a human being fucked by an anthropomorphic canid—mostly wolves and dogs, a handful of foxes—and sometimes by more than one, mouths and arses and cunts stretched and filled with lurid red cocks. More than the graphic sexual content, they each contain some peculiar detail that draws Jon’s eye and makes liquid heat pool in his belly; a facial expression, or the way a clawed hand twists into hair, or the sheen of sweat and other fluids on skin.

Jon lets his hand play between his thighs as he scrolls through some favorite images, tugging his cock between his fingers, then sliding them down into the hot folds of his cunt, spreading the slick and working himself open. He can take three of his own fingers easily, reclining back against a mound of pillows, his breath coming faster. 

Once he’s stretched to his own satisfaction he gets onto his knees, spreads more lube over the dildo and around his entrance. He sinks down onto it, groaning softly at the sensation. It slides in easily, and he quickly finds the knot pressed against his hole. Jon wriggles against it, enjoying the way it teases the lips of his cunt, then bears down on it, breathing deeply to relax himself. It feels like it won’t fit; it _shouldn’t_ fit. He feels the urgent pressure of it, threatening to be too much, more than he can take, and then with a wet sound it pops past his entrance and inside him. 

The groan Jon gives this time is bone deep satisfaction. The knot feels amazing, stretching and filling him all at once. He lifts up experimentally and feels the resistance as the knot tugs against his hole, held firmly in place. Jon knows from experience that he can remove it without difficulty if he relaxes and eases it out carefully, but the feeling of it lodged inside him is intensely hot. He feels a fresh gush of slick at the weight of it, his cock throbbing between his thighs. Jon squeezes his legs together as best he can with the dildo inside him. 

With slightly trembling fingers, he scrolls through the files until he finds the perfect piece for this scenario. He commissioned this art, and it’s one of his favorites. In it, a man sits in the lap of an anthro wolf at least eight feet tall, sinking down onto the wolf’s cock as it spreads his cunt wide, his own cock jutting out stiffly from between the folds. One of the wolf’s hands is grasping at his hip, fingers indenting the flesh, and the other is pinching a nipple with cruel claws, while his obscenely long tongue licks a stripe up his lover’s neck. The man’s head is flung back, and the expression on his face might be agony or ecstasy. 

Jon’s gaze lingers on every detail of the scene as he fucks himself on the dildo in tiny motions, the knot catching pleasurably on the rim of his cunt. He pinches his own nipple harshly, imagining clawed fingers; tips his head, imagining hot, wet breath on his throat, hungry and possessive; works his cock with shaking fingers, arousal building in deep, rolling waves until he’s shuddering and gasping and coming, bearing down on the cock as hard as he can while his body clenches around it, curling in on himself. 

It takes a few moments until he can think again, aftershocks of orgasm shivering through his body, his cunt still clenching rhythmically and his cock twitching feebly. Jon gives a long, satisfied sigh. He’s going to have to take another shower, judging by how sweaty he feels and the stickiness between his thighs, but at least he knows he’ll sleep tonight. 

On the bedside table, his phone vibrates. Jon leans across, grimacing slightly at the drag of the toy against his sensitive insides, and picks it up. It’s a text from Martin:

**_Just got home. Had a great time, thx for suggesting that place!_ **

**_I’m glad you liked it,_ ** Jon texts back, **_thanks for letting me know you’re home safe._ **

Martin’s next response is so very him that Jon feels a smile tugging at his lips.

**_Don’t stay up too late working, I know u! ;)_ **

_Not entirely,_ Jon thinks, squeezing his thighs around the toy. He texts:

**_I won’t, promise. Good night!_ **

He sets the phone down and starts easing the toy carefully out of himself, feeling a peculiar sense of something that isn’t quite guilt, but isn’t a million miles away either. 

When he and Martin had agreed there was something between them they both wanted to explore, Jon was immediately clear about the fact that sex wasn't on the table. He’s always found that it’s best to be upfront about these things, give the other person an opportunity to back out if they want to. Martin hadn’t, of course, had smiled and told Jon that it didn’t matter, that he would be perfectly happy without sex being part of their relationship. 

The thing is, “I don’t” isn’t the whole story of Jon and sex. But the whole is complicated, and unpredictable, and really when ninety-five percent of the story is “no” then it seems almost...unfair to mention the five percent “maybe”. Like giving false hope. Which is ridiculous in itself, Jon knows Martin isn’t hanging around in the hopes of having sex with him. But he really likes Martin, likes the two of them together; he hates feeling like he’s lying, even if only by omission. It’s just difficult to talk about this stuff, even though he knows that’s what people in healthy relationships do. 

And all that is entirely aside from his rather exotic masturbation habits, which—do people in healthy relationships discuss their taste in porn? Jon certainly never has, but he doesn’t exactly have a wealth of relationship experience. Would Martin think it’s weird that he masturbates regularly to anthropomorphic wolf porn but doesn’t have sex? Would he be insulted? Jon likes to think that he wouldn’t, but there’s really no way to know without bringing it up. And the mere thought of sitting Martin down for _that_ discussion makes his stomach churn with anxiety. Honestly, life would be a lot easier if Martin could just _know_ without Jon having to tell him. 

“Maybe I’ll just get us both _really_ drunk and show him my collection,” Jon mutters to himself, and heads to the bathroom for another shower. 

*

Being in a relationship is...nice. 

Okay, a lot more than nice. 

Martin is thoughtful and generous and has a wicked sense of humor once he gets to know you; he likes retro design and writes poetry in his spare time and never forgets a birthday; he makes Jon feel excited and giddy, butterflies in his stomach, without ever feeling unsafe. Jon doesn’t trust people easily with himself, but he trusts Martin, and Martin rewards his trust with care and kindness. 

Martin trusts him too, he thinks. It took a while for Martin to open up, but more and more he’s started telling Jon about himself, about his mum and their difficult relationship, about his fears and insecurities. He even confided in Jon—admittedly while mildly tipsy—that he exaggerated his CV to get the library job. His work experience as a library assistant is genuine, but he doesn’t have any formal qualifications. Jon—equally tipsy—had promised solemnly to keep the information to himself; really, he was just impressed that Martin had managed to fake having a master’s in parapsychology during the interview process. 

The longer things go on between them, the more Jon thinks that Martin is worth having those messy, difficult conversations with. He says as much to his therapist, who is broadly supportive of the idea, but suggests he take plenty of time to consider it:

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk to him about it, by any means,” she tells him. “But remember that it’s okay to want privacy about aspects of your life as well, Jon. You don’t owe anyone absolute disclosure, not even a partner.”

In the end, it comes up without him actually intending it to. Martin’s off to Kent for the weekend to spend time with his mum, leaving early Saturday, so Jon comes to his flat after work Friday with takeaway and a nice bottle of wine. He doesn’t say out loud that he’ll miss Martin while he’s away—that might sound a bit needy—but Jon grasps at the chance to spend some time with him before he goes. 

Martin is a little on edge all evening, which Jon puts down to nerves over seeing his mum. If he’s honest, he was surprised to hear Martin was visiting her—given what he’s heard about their relationship—though of course he’s pleased for Martin. He seems anxious about getting to bed on time, since he has an early train, though when Jon suggests maybe he should leave, Martin smiles apologetically and says no, he didn’t mean it like that, and Jon should stay a while longer. 

He begs off drinking any of the wine, so as not to risk a tannin headache, but Jon has a couple of glasses—it’s been a long week. He’s nowhere near to drunk, just pleasantly warm and relaxed, and he thinks he has a good idea to help Martin relax a bit too. He hums and nudges up against Martin’s side; when Martin turns his attention from whatever nonsense is on telly, Jon takes the opportunity to climb into his lap, looping his arms around Martin’s shoulders, lifting up on his knees until he’s looking down into Martin’s amused face. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi yourself,” says Martin, and he might be about to say something else when Jon kisses him. The kiss is soft at first, and goes slowly deeper, Martin’s hands coming up to Jon’s waist and Jon tightening his arms around Martin’s shoulders. Martin slides gradually back onto the sofa until he’s lying down with his head propped on the arm rest, Jon still straddling him and kissing him hungrily. 

They kiss for a long time, and the warmth coiling down Jon’s spine is starting to settle as heat between his thighs; the act of kissing has always been wired directly to his libido, entirely distinct from any need for sexual attraction. Martin is solid beneath him, his hands stroking possessively over Jon’s back and sides, and Jon’s hips give a mindless roll against his, feeling the hard outline of Martin’s cock pressed against him. Martin groans, his hands tightening on Jon’s hips almost hard enough to hurt, and then he’s wrenching his head away with a frustrated sound.

“Sorry!” he breathes, wild eyed and flushed to the tips of his ears. “Sorry Jon, I, ah, I’m getting a bit...umm… Maybe we should stop?”

“I don’t mind,” Jon tells him, feeling reckless. He’s aware he might not be saying this if he hadn’t had two glasses of wine, but he’s been trying to think of a way to bring this up for weeks, so...fuck it, caution to the wind. He rolls his hips against Martin’s again.

“You don’t—ahh!” Martin gasps. “Wait, hang on…” He pushes himself up until he’s sitting, tipping Jon out of his lap onto the sofa cushions. Martin gives him a look that’s equal parts perplexed and concerned.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a little high pitched and out of breath. Jon shrugs, feeling suddenly very foolish; this is not the good, healthy communication he had intended.

“I...well, I was just...I just got into it, and I thought...why not go with it? I didn’t think you’d mind. Sorry.”

“No, Jon, I—“ Martin gives a long, slow exhale. “It’s not that I _mind_ , but you told me that you don’t have sex. We established that very clearly. So you’ll excuse me being a bit confused.”

“I don’t know that dry humping with all our clothes on necessarily counts as _sex_ ,” Jon mutters, but he knows he’s being petty. 

“Jon.” 

“Right. Sorry,” he sighs. “I, uh, I’ve meant to talk to you about this for a while now, actually. I...don’t have sex. Mostly. But, uh, not _entirely._ There are, occasionally, umm, situations where I feel more amenable to sexual contact.”

“Like grinding on my sofa?” Martin asks incredulously. Jon feels himself flushing with embarrassment. 

“Yes, I suppose,” he says. “It’s more likely when it’s...low pressure? Less rose petals strewn on silk sheets and more spontaneous. And the, uh, the kissing was very nice.”

“You know, you’re not exactly selling me here with ‘amenable’ and ‘nice’. If you’re saying this just because you think I want to hear it—”

Martin’s arms fold defensively across his chest, and Jon scrambles to avert that particular train of thought. 

“No!” he says. “Honestly, Martin, no, I’m—I’m not explaining myself very well.” 

Jon takes a deep breath and tries again. 

“I do...get aroused, and have sexual thoughts, fantasies—not _about_ anyone, more...fictional.” That’s probably enough on _that_ topic for now. “Generally I prefer to take care of it by myself, but in the right circumstances, with the right person, it...can feel natural to let things happen.” 

He pauses for a moment to let Martin respond. At least Martin doesn’t look defensive anymore, but now he’s just staring, eyes wide and blushing furiously, not saying anything. Maybe Jon hasn’t been clear enough. 

“I was aroused by kissing you,” he explains. “I didn’t want to take my clothes off and—and touch your genitals, or have you touch mine.” 

Martin makes a tiny, indistinct sound. 

“But I would have been quite happy to...keep doing what we were doing until we both orgasmed. Does that, uh, make any sense?” 

“Oh,” says Martin in a voice that’s close to a squeak. “Right. That’s uh...Hmm.” 

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon says; he’s really cocked this up. “It was wrong of me to push for sexual contact without discussing it with you first. I was the one who set that boundary, and I shouldn’t have crossed it without having the conversation.”

Martin still looks thoroughly flustered and overheated, but he leans across and takes Jon’s hand in his. 

“It’s all right,” he sighs. “You just...surprised me, that’s all.”

“Sorry,” says Jon again. “I should have explained better from the beginning, but it’s complicated, and I—I didn’t want to set any expectations that I might not live up to.”

“I get it. Really. It’s okay.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon feels some of the anxious weight dissipate in his chest. 

“So,” he says. “Should we...talk about it?” 

Martin scrubs his free hand through his hair, and gives him a smile that’s genuine, but tight. 

“Umm...could we talk about it when I get back?” he asks. “I’m not upset or anything, I promise. It’s just a big topic, and I have to be up really early tomorrow.”

“Right,” says Jon. He knows there’s no reason for him to feel rejected by Martin’s words, but there it is, that little core of hurt that says he’s being pushed away. Ridiculous as he knows it is, he can’t help it. 

“It might even be good,” Martin continues. “Give us both a couple of days to think about how we want to approach the conversation?”

“That makes sense,” Jon agrees. It _does_ make sense, even though it might not feel like it; Jon might have been turning this over and over in his head for weeks, but it’s new to Martin, he deserves some space to think about it. Jon gives him a smile that feels a bit watery. 

“I should probably head home anyway,” he says, “Let you get some sleep.” 

“I still need to finish packing,” Martin says mournfully. “I’ll walk you to the station first, though.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Jon tells him. “It’s not even dark yet.” He fetches his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugs into it. Martin meets him at the door, frowning a little with concern. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes, absolutely,” Jon says, and gives him a smile. He puts his hands on Martin’s shoulders and pops up on his toes to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be a quick peck, but then Martin’s arms go around his back, pulling Jon hard against him, and Martin’s mouth opens hot under his, and Jon can feel Martin’s interest pressed firmly against his hip. Before he can decide what to think about it, Martin gives a little whimper and releases him. His face is flushed and he’s breathing hard.

“Sorry,” he says with a rueful smile, “Still a bit...well, you have that effect on me I suppose.” He opens the door and holds it for Jon to walk through. “Text me when you get home, yeah?” 

“Right,” says Jon, feeling a bit flustered himself. “You, uh, make sure you get a good night’s sleep.” 

“Will do,” Martin says, and shuts the door. 

*

Jon would like to say that he’s not the sort of stew on mistakes he’s made or awkward situations, but that would be a lie. 

He spends the Tube journey playing the evening over in his head, and by the time he gets home, he’s squirming with equal parts embarrassment and raw rejection. Much as he might tell his brain that it’s being stupid—that it was actually a pretty good talk, and Martin doesn’t hate him, and he _hasn’t_ ruined everything—the worm of anxiety is still burrowing through his thoughts. He tries to distract himself by working on a case report he’s been putting off, but after an hour he’s made almost no progress and he has to admit defeat. His thoughts won’t stop racing, and to make matters worse, he’s still embarrassingly turned on from earlier. 

With a frustrated huff, Jon heads into the bedroom and starts stripping his clothes off. He can take care of one thing at least; maybe he’ll even feel better afterwards. The vibrator he chooses is pleasingly thick and long. He can feel he’s already plenty wet, almost soaking through his boxers as he takes them off; he slicks himself and the toy up and presses the blunt head to his entrance. It would be easier if he used fingers first, but he’s not feeling particularly patient. Jon eases the vibe into himself, slow but relentless, feeling it stretch his insides with a delicious ache. 

He shuts his eyes and imagines a real cock pushing into him, thick and red and merciless, imagines hot breath on his face and clawed hands holding him in place, a toy to be used however the creature wishes. He fumbles for the button and turns the vibrations up, bites his lip as it thrums inside him. He tugs at his cock, fucks himself slow and deep as he imagines the wolf looming over him, predator over prey, pulling Jon’s hips up to thrust deeper into him, uncaring at his protests. Jon groans low in his throat, and his thoughts wander to earlier tonight, on Martin’s sofa, the warm weight of Martin beneath him and between his legs, hands stroking over his shoulders and back while they kissed, slow and deep. He lets himself go with it, sinking the vibe deep, remembering the hard press of Martin’s cock against his groin, the— 

_Shit,_ he remembers suddenly. He forgot to text Martin when he got home. And Martin will _definitely_ worry if he doesn’t. The toy is still thrumming inside him, but he’s lost the thread of his fantasy—both of them—and he’s now too anxious to think about anything else. Jon sighs, turns the vibe off and eases it back out. He’ll text Martin, and then maybe he can try again. 

Jon pads naked out into the living room. His phone isn’t on the coffee table or the kitchen counter; he checks his jacket pockets, then checks them again, then goes back into the bedroom and checks around the bed. No sign of it. He walks around looking in every conceivable place he could have put it down—he even checks the bathroom, despite not having been in there since he got home. He thinks back; did he lose it on the train? No, he didn’t have it out on the train, too busy brooding. Did he leave it at Martin’s flat?

“Shit,” he says, out loud this time. Martin’s going to be gone in the morning, and while there is a universe where Jon could conceivably survive for the weekend without his phone, he’d really rather not have to. He curses his past self for dismissing the idea of a landline as laughably outdated. There’s only one thing for it: he’s going to have to go back to Martin’s. It’s not that late, he probably won’t be asleep yet. And even if he is, he’ll understand. 

After all, if Jon doesn’t have his phone he can’t text Martin cat memes all weekend. 

*

The Tube is quiet at this time on Friday night: too late for the after work crowd, but too early for the groups spilling out after closing time. Jon has to change twice to get to Stockwell, and then it’s a ten minute walk to Martin’s. The night is warm and muggy, and overhead the full moon is bright behind wisps of cloud. 

Jon has the code to Martin’s building, but he still buzzes up; he doesn’t want to turn up unannounced at the door. There’s no answer, so he waits a few moments and buzzes again. Still nothing. Martin should have heard that even if he was asleep. Maybe he’s taking a shower? Jon lets himself in and heads up the stairs. At Martin’s front door he knocks loud enough to be heard, then waits a few moments and knocks again when there's no response. 

“Martin?” he calls through the door. “It’s me—Jon? I forgot my phone.” 

Nothing. Martin must be in the shower, or absolutely dead asleep. More distressing scenarios threaten to raise themselves in the back of Jon’s head— _he’s fallen and hit his head, he’s had a sudden aneurysm—_ but he pushes them away. No need to be alarmist about this. 

He feels uncomfortable, fitting the spare key into the lock. It’s been a few weeks since Martin gave it to him, and he’s only used it twice when Martin’s told him to let himself in—he’s certainly never arrived without advance notice. Still, these are rather unusual circumstances. He unlocks the door and pushes it open a crack. 

“Martin?” he calls again as the door swings open. “Sorry to turn up like this—I think I left my phone here?” 

Nobody answers. The inside of the flat is dark, all the lights switched off. The curtains in the living room are open, and Jon can see the hazy glow of the street lights outside. Maybe Martin _is_ in bed? Or maybe he had to go out for something? Maybe he’s on his way to Jon’s flat with his phone right now? He should have taken a cab and got here quicker, he realizes with sudden hindsight. 

Jon stands frozen in place, at a loss for what to do. If Martin’s out, he should try to find his phone and leave a note to say he’s been, right? But if Martin’s asleep, isn’t it a bit...creepy, to wander around his flat without saying anything? Surely he’d rather be woken up than have Jon there and not even tell him?

(And there’s that little tendril of panic in the back of his skull wondering _what if something’s happened to him? What if?_ Jon can’t leave without putting that to rest.)

 _All right,_ Jon decides at last, his thoughts clicking into place with a clear order of operation. _First, check if Martin’s asleep. If he is, then wake him up, apologize, and explain. If he’s not, try to find phone. It’s a small flat, there aren’t that many places it could be. If Martin comes back in the interim, apologize and explain. If no phone, then wait for Martin to come back, and go from there._

Jon approaches the bedroom door on careful feet, and wonders halfway there why on earth he’s being stealthy. If Martin’s there he _wants_ to wake him up. He strides the rest of the way, and then hesitates again. Should he walk in, or knock first? He’s been in Martin’s bedroom before, spent the night in his bed, even, cuddled up and cozy. But it feels odd to just walk in unannounced. He raises his hand and raps lightly with his knuckles. 

“Martin?” he says. “It’s Jon. Can I come in?” 

There’s no response. Jon turns the knob and cracks the door open. The room is dark—Martin uses blackout curtains because any light disturbs his sleep—but Jon can hear the sound of slow, labored breathing. There’s something...off about it, and Jon feels unease crawling down his spine. 

“Martin?” he calls softly, and takes a step inside. There’s a soft huffing noise at that, and Jon realizes with alarm what’s strange about the breathing: it’s not coming from the bed, but from the corner of the room. Blinking, his ill-adjusted eyes can just make out a shape slumped on the floor. 

“Oh fuck, Martin!” Jon fumbles for the light switch, adrenaline lancing through him, _god,_ what’s happened? Is Martin hurt? His hand finds the switch and light floods the room, and Jon hears himself give a horribly undignified yelp at the sight of something large and shaggy, which _was_ curled into a ball but is now rousing, turning its heavy, blunt muzzle towards him. What the hell? Martin doesn’t have a dog—

 _It’s not a dog,_ his brain shrieks at him, _Look at that thing, that is in no way a dog, what the fuck—_

The creature lifts its head slowly, drowsily, its lips pulling back to show sharp white teeth. Jon can feel the scream gathering behind his own teeth, and then its eyes open lazily, soft blue and achingly familiar as they focus on Jon, and all the breath goes out of him at once. 

“Martin?” he manages to whisper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter, I’m delighted people enjoyed it and are on board with this horny silliness! XD 
> 
> Many thanks to the fantastic fatal_drum for both beta reading and veterinary consultation!

The creature’s snout wrinkles and a low, rumbling sound comes from its chest. Its ears twitch forward. It sniffs the air, lips pulling back from those long, white teeth. It starts to move, massive shoulders shifting, and Jon realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. He screams silently at himself to _move_ as the creature tries to get its legs under it, its efforts sluggish and uncoordinated, but his feet remain locked stubbornly in place. The wolf thing lifts off the floor, mouth open, wet tongue lolling out as Jon stares helplessly. 

And then its legs go from under it and it slumps back to the floor with a mournful whine. 

There’s a jangle of metal, and Jon sees the handcuff looped around one of its wrists—because yes, those front limbs are unmistakably _arms—_ and attached at the base of the radiator it’s lying beside. 

“What the hell—?” he breathes. At the sound of his voice there’s another whine and a soft _thump thump thump_ starts up. 

The creature’s tail is wagging. 

Its eyes, blue and familiar, plead up at him beneath its shaggy brows. 

“Right,” says Jon, pushing down the panic he can feel rising behind his ribs. “Umm.”

He needs to leave. He needs to—to call the police, because really, _what the hell?_ Of course he doesn’t have a bloody _phone_ , does he? He needs to— 

To— 

Jon takes a long, shaky breath, leaning against the doorframe for support as his legs go from stone to jelly. His lizard brain is screaming that this place is danger _,_ teeth and claws and hunger, but curiosity is a leash around his throat and the rationalist in him needs to _know,_ to verify the evidence and figure out the means of action. 

The wolf is lying still now, breathing slowly. Its eyes _(Martin, they’re_ Martin’s _eyes)_ are still fixed on him and its tail is waving gently, but it’s not showing signs of agitation. Right, then. 

Jon looks around. The room has clearly been prepared: the mattress is stripped bare, and there’s a set of Martin’s clothes folded carefully near the foot of the bed. Little personal objects Jon remembers seeing are gone—Martin’s retro alarm clock, the plastic karaoke trophy he won at last year’s Institute Christmas party and gave pride of place. He opens the drawer of the bedside locker and finds them all tucked away inside. There’s an orange pill bottle as well, which reads ‘Trazodone 300mg’. Jon’s not sure what that is, but he could hazard a guess that it’s some kind of sedative. 

He turns back to the shaggy form in the corner, the creature watching him with drowsy eyes.

_Not a creature, Jonathan, you know what it is—_ who _it is, no point denying it._

Except it _can’t_ be what it looks like. It’s utterly ridiculous: fairytale, horror movie stuff. There’s simply no mechanism by which it could possibly occur in the real world. Yes, folktales about shapeshifters and skin changers go back thousands of years, among dozens of cultures. It’s an incredibly pervasive mythology. The idea that it might have some basis in fact, though, is—

He’s always said it, hasn’t he? If he ever found a paranormal phenomenon that didn’t have a mundane explanation, he would have to reevaluate his world view. 

Well. Here he is. 

Jon clears his throat, feeling rather silly as he turns to address the enormous wolf-like shape watching him from the floor. 

“Umm...Martin?” 

There’s a soft huffing sound, and the thick tail begins thumping against the floor again. Jon swallows hard, and takes a step forward.

“It is you, isn’t it? How—”

Jon’s words fail, and he sits down heavily on the bare mattress. The crea— _Martin_ starts shuffling clumsily in his direction. The cuff around his wrist catches almost immediately and he gives an irritated whimpering growl, yanking at the restraint. The handcuff jangles and clangs loudly against the radiator and Jon has a sudden vision of him either breaking loose or breaking his hand, neither of which seem like a good option. 

“Okay, all right,” he says, moving across the bed until he’s sitting at the end of it, legs crossed so his feet stay safely on top of the mattress. “Look, I’m here, all right?” 

Martin continues whimpering and struggling towards him, panting anxiously. 

The sensible thing, Jon is aware, would be to leave the room and hope Martin goes back to sleep. Out of sight, out of mind. Nobody’s ever accused Jon of being particularly sensible, however. And this is _Martin._ Martin wouldn’t hurt him, even if he’s not quite himself right now. Jon’s almost entirely sure of that. 

“Okay then,” he says gently. He extends his right hand carefully, fist closed the way he’s heard you should with dogs, until it’s within reach of that huge, toothy muzzle. Jon holds his breath as Martin sniffs enthusiastically at his fist, nose wet against his knuckles, and then a long, pink tongue swipes over the back of his hand. Blue eyes look up at Jon, soft and imploring, and Martin complains, bumping his snout hard against Jon’s fist. 

“Oh,” says Jon. “Well, if you’re sure…” 

He uncurls his fist and brings his hand to rest on Martin’s thick, furry neck, moving slowly enough to let Martin indicate if he’s not happy. When he makes contact, the fur is unbelievably thick and soft, and his fingers sink deep into it. Martin makes happy dog noises and leans into the touch. 

“Wow,” Jon breathes, and without thought, sinks his other hand into the dense fur, curling and scratching gently through Martin’s coat. Martin’s tongue swipes at his inner arm as Jon pets him, with more enthusiasm than coordination, and Jon feels a giddy laugh spill out of him, something between amazement and relief. Somewhere in the background, his rational brain is frantically spooling through explanations for how this is in any way possible, but Jon can’t pay attention to that right now because he is scratching a _werewolf_ between the ears _._

“God, Martin,” he says. He can’t believe this has been going on all the time they’ve been together—all the time they’ve _known_ each other—and he had no idea. Jon racks his brain for unusual absences, times Martin’s been cagey about his whereabouts, but nothing comes to mind. Certainly nothing ever pinged his sense that there might be something wrong. Judging by the preparation, the sedatives, the handcuffs, Martin is _very_ accustomed to managing this by himself. Jon feels a pang of sympathy, to think he’s been going through all this with nobody to support him. 

Martin’s clumsy efforts are getting more energetic, despite the sedation. He pushes his head forward insistently. A huge, clawed hand paws at Jon’s leg, and Martin’s snout presses in between his thighs, nosing eagerly at his groin. Jon feels an unexpected rush of heat go through him and okay, that is _really_ inappropriate in this situation. 

“All right, let’s all calm down a bit.” He pushes Martin’s head gently but firmly away from his crotch, as Martin is trying to lever himself up onto the mattress. 

“No!” he says in the firm tone of voice he thinks you’re supposed to use for dogs. Martin gives a growly yelp, tail wagging as if he thinks this is a game, and then Jon squeaks as Martin’s free arm, muscular and hairy, winds around him and drags him off the bed onto the floor. He lands on his back and Martin looms over him, snuffling into Jon’s throat, all fur and hot breath and wet tongue lapping at his skin. 

“Martin!” Jon protests, pushing at the shaggy expanse of torso above him. As he struggles for purchase, he sees down the length of Martin’s body to the glistening red shape jutting out between his thighs. Jon has just enough time to notice that it is definitely canine, and _big,_ before the weight of Martin’s hips lands on his, pinning him down. Martin thrusts against him, his cock rigid against Jon’s leg. Panic washes over Jon, but there’s another pulse of heat with it too and he gives a shameful groan. He shoves frantically at the hot, hairy form above him.

“Martin! Stop!” he shouts. “Get off me right now!” 

Martin scoots backwards with an unhappy sound, ears flattened against his head. Jon scrambles to his feet and backs away, his heart racing and his breath catching in his throat. Martin whines again, and Jon feels a surge of sympathy. 

“No,” he says firmly. “I know you didn’t mean that, but for both our sakes, I think it’s best if we discuss this when you’re more yourself. All right?” 

Martin looks at him, head tilted curiously, and gives a grumbling little growl. He tugs at the restraint, though without much force. Jon opens the door and backs out, switching off the light as he goes; hopefully Martin will calm down once he can’t see Jon anymore. As he shuts the door, he hears a final whimper from inside. 

Jon fills the kettle with shaking hands and leans against the counter while it boils. What is he supposed to do now? Martin clearly didn’t intend for him to find out about— _this_. And, he reminds himself, nobody owes anybody else absolute disclosure _._ All right, his therapist probably hasn’t considered this _particular_ situation, but the point still stands. Is the healthy thing to stay and talk it out in the morning, or to give Martin his space and speak with him on Monday? The tools Jon’s learned in his weekly sessions haven’t equipped him for this in the slightest.

All he has to go on are his instincts, and instinct tells him he needs to be here when Martin wakes up—assuming he’s going to be himself in the morning. Jon makes a cup of tea and curls up on the sofa with a spare blanket from the airing cupboard. He squirms around to make himself comfortable, and there’s a thud as his phone falls out of the sofa cushions onto the floor. When he picks it up, he sees a text on the screen from Martin:

**_I know u probably just forgot but text me when u see this so I don’t have to worry! If I don’t answer I’m asleep_ **

Jon feels a stab of guilt at that, though there was hardly much he could do. He sets the phone down and turns the telly on to some late night nonsense, hoping for a distraction. 

It doesn’t work, of course, his mind still racing with the unbelievable events of the night. Again and again his thoughts return to Martin’s blue eyes looking at him from that bestial face, his tail thumping the ground at the sound of Jon’s voice, as if he recognized him—he _did_ recognize Jon, didn’t he? The momentary panic of that huge, hairy shape dragging him down and pinning him and rutting against him, and that memory sends another rush of arousal through Jon that he sternly dismisses. This is definitely not the time to be thinking along those lines, though his body is convinced it’s a wonderful idea. 

He sighs. They have a lot to talk about.

*

Jon wakes with a start. He groans as he sits upright, his back stiff from sleeping curled up awkwardly on the sofa. Outside the street lamps are off and early morning sunlight is brightening the sky. Jon sits up and gropes for his phone: it’s almost six o’clock. He didn’t actually intend to fall asleep, but now he’s awake he needs to check on Martin right away. 

As Jon eases the bedroom door open, there’s some small part of him that expects to see the wolf creature still lying there, the part that still can’t accept what he saw last night could possibly have been Martin. It’s dark inside, but he immediately makes out the figure in the corner with its back to him: smaller and paler and more vulnerable than it was last night. That proves it then, beyond any shadow of doubt. Martin’s shoulder rises and falls slowly as he sleeps, and for a moment Jon hesitates to disturb him, chewing on his lip. 

“Martin?” he calls eventually, and Martin stirs, gives a low groan and turns over. His eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment for him to focus on Jon, blinking muzzily. He takes in a sharp breath, eyes widening, curling in on himself as he becomes aware of his own nakedness. 

“Oh god,” he whispers, his voice low and distressed. “I thought that was a dream.”

“Ah, hang on a second,” says Jon, and darts back out to the living room. He grabs the blanket from the sofa— _should have thought of it in the first place, Sims—_ and approaches with his eyes averted, holding it out. Martin takes it and wraps it around himself. 

“Are you all right?” Jon asks. “Do you want...some water or something?” 

“I’m fine,” says Martin. “What are you _doing_ here, Jon?”

“I left my phone here last night and I had to come back for it. I didn’t intend to—to spy on you or anything. But, well, here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Martin says miserably, then waggles the hand that’s still cuffed to the radiator. “Could you, ah—in that pocket?” He nods towards the clothes folded neatly on the bed. Jon retrieves the handcuff key from the pocket of the tracksuit bottoms, and crouches to unlock Martin’s wrist, revealing a circlet of raw, red skin where he struggled against it last night. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I, ah, I think that’s partly my fault. If I hadn’t been here…”

“It’s fine,” Martin shrugs, rubbing at the mark. “There are bad nights sometimes. And I heal quickly.” 

“Right,” says Jon, frantically trying to think of what to say. Finally he settles on: “Tea?”

“Umm, yeah, that would be...nice. Thanks.” Martin gives him a tired, wary smile. “I should probably go and take a shower.”

“Right. You do that, and I’ll make the tea.”

Jon makes two cups of tea while he listens to the shower run, wondering how on earth he’s supposed to talk to Martin about—about _any_ of this. Martin seems withdrawn, and Jon can’t tell if he’s angry or embarrassed or scared, if he wants Jon around or not. Jon’s never been great at communicating at the best of times, how is he supposed to even _start_ with this? 

He leans against the counter and forces himself to take a few long, slow breaths, in and out. Right. Okay. This might not be a normal situation, but healthy communication strategies still apply. Be honest, but not aggressive. Use “I” statements. Be aware of body language. Take a break if you need to, or reschedule the conversation to later. They can do this. 

Eventually the shower stops, and a couple of minutes later Martin emerges in the soft tracksuit bottoms and hoodie he’d left on the bed. It tugs painfully at Jon once again how _accustomed_ Martin is to all this, to going through it all alone. Jon hands him a mug of tea—he’s made it extra sweet and milky, the way his grandmother used to when he was sick—and they sit down on the sofa together. Martin takes a long drink from his tea, then squares his shoulders. 

“I’m...a bit hazy about last night,” he says at last. “Between the sedatives and…everything, my memories of—of full moon nights generally aren’t the best. But you, uh, you were—” He looks away, and his voice is raw with emotion when he says: “Did I hurt you?” 

“Oh, Martin…” says Jon. “No, not at all. You, ah, you got a bit over excited? But no, you didn’t hurt me.” 

“Good. Okay. That’s good, at least.” Martin sounds relieved, and he’s looking at Jon again, if still warily. “So...now you know.” 

“I—I hardly feel I do. I can’t even think about where to start, with everything I want to ask you. Not that you have to tell me anything,” he hastens to add. “Not unless you want to. You’re entitled to your privacy.” 

Martin gives a disbelieving laugh. “Really? If I told you I didn’t want to talk about it, you’d just leave it at that?”

“Well…” Jon squirms uncomfortably. “I’d rather not, obviously. I mean, you’re a _werewolf,_ Martin—oh, uh, is that the right word? Or…” 

“I—I honestly have no idea,” says Martin. “Werewolf is...it’s fine.”

“I’m getting away from the point,” says Jon. “What I mean is, I have a—a professional curiosity about your situation, you’re the first _incontrovertibly_ paranormal phenomenon I’ve ever encountered!”

“Thanks,” says Martin drily. Jon huffs in frustration, because he’s trying but he’s just so _bad_ at this. 

“I’m sorry,” says Jon. “I’m not saying this right at all. I care about you, Martin, and of course I want to _know_. But if there are things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with me, then...that’s your choice, and I’ll respect it. As long as you’re not putting yourself or others in harm’s way—which, clearly, you’re not. So yes, if you say you don’t want to talk about it, we’ll leave it at that.” 

“Oh,” says Martin. He sets his tea carefully down on the table, his expression crumpling, and for a moment Jon thinks he might be about to cry. Jon is halfway to reaching out for him when Martin takes a long, deep inhale and sits up straight. His eyes are red, but he gives Jon a tiny smile. 

“Okay,” he says. “What do you want to know? It’s—it’s easier, if you ask me.” 

“Right,” says Jon. “Okay. Let’s start with—how long have you been—?”

“A werewolf?” Martin deadpans. “Umm, all my life, I suppose? I didn’t get bitten on the moors during a full moon or anything. I mean, I didn’t _know_ until I was about twelve. It kicked in right about the same time as puberty did. Hair in new places and all that?”

“So it’s, ah, genetic, then?” 

“I suppose so. I think I got it from my dad? My mum wouldn’t talk about him, after he left, but, uh, once it started happening to me she, umm…there were things she said…” 

His voice cracks on that, and Jon does reach out now, resting a hand over Martin’s where it sits on his thigh, careful in case Martin doesn’t want to be touched. Martin doesn’t pull away. 

“I don’t really know, though. I don’t know if my dad knew any more about it than I do. I...kind of worked it out as I went along.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly. His chest is aching with sympathy for the scared, bewildered boy who had to figure it out on his own, for the man sitting in front of him now. He squeezes Martin’s hand. 

“‘S fine, really. Not an issue, mostly. What else d’you want to know?” 

“When you, uh...that is, last night, did you recognize me?” 

Martin actually smiles at that. 

“Yeah. I mean, like I said, my memory of that stuff isn’t great, but...I remember being really happy to see you.” He frowns a little. “Actually, more to smell you. My sense of smell is...it’s pretty sensitive, when I’m like that.” 

“So you are...you, then?” 

“I, uh, it’s complicated. Or...a lot simpler, I suppose? I’m still me, but it’s...a really simplified version of me. Stripped down to basic thoughts and feelings, no inhibitions.”

“Sounds a bit like being intoxicated,” Jon muses. Martin frowns. 

“A bit, maybe? But it’s more...animalistic. I mean, obviously. Umm, for example. I lock myself to the radiator beforehand, right? During, I don’t remember why I’m locked up. And I don’t want to be locked up, I want to run around and smell things and chase things, and obviously that would be a _really_ bad idea, but I don’t know that anymore. So it’s easier if I just sedate myself and sleep through it.”

“Is it safe, though?” Jon asks. “I hardly think your doctor prescribed you sedatives for lycanthropy.” 

“Safer than taking a chance I might get out,” Martin says, his voice tense. Jon wants to ask if there’s a story there, if someone’s been hurt before, but he thinks better of it. It could only upset Martin for him to ask now. Instead, he just squeezes Martin’s hand again.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” says Martin. “I should have said I needed the weekend to myself, or something, rather than making a story up.” 

“I—I do understand, Martin. It’s not exactly an easy thing to explain. I just can’t believe I had no idea anything was going on.” Jon feels a sharp, nagging guilt at that. Has he not been paying attention to Martin at all? Is he really so self-absorbed? 

“You know, Jon, I’ve been doing this for a long time,” Martin tells him, his voice bleakly humorous. “I’m good at keeping it low key. It’s pretty straightforward, mostly, and I can usually tell if it’s going to be a bad one, so I can schedule an extra day to recover.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“The symptoms come on a few days earlier. My sense of smell gets sharper, like I said. I feel more aggressive, on edge. More, umm, horny, as well?” 

He flushes with embarrassment and Jon recalls how Martin had dragged him close in the doorway yesterday evening, erection pressing into his hip. He feels his own face heat a little. Martin clears his throat. 

“I can tell if the symptoms are especially bad, so I just take extra sedatives and make sure I have the next day off, just in case.” 

Jon still wants to ask _just in case what?_ But Martin looks cagey and anxious, and he doesn’t want to push too hard. He bites his tongue and drinks his tea, which is tepid by now, giving Martin space to talk again. 

“I...wanted to tell you,” Martin says eventually. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, now. I just didn’t know how. I’ve never told anyone before.” 

“Never?” Jon breathes, and Martin gives him a bitter smile. 

“Never had anyone to tell. My mum was the only one who knew, and she—” He cuts himself off. Jon considers what to say next. 

“I’m...sorry, that I removed your choice whether to tell me,” he says carefully. “I didn’t intend to, but intent and action are separate things, so I’m still sorry. But I’m happy that you chose to share all of this with me.” 

“Oh,” says Martin. “That’s—that’s all right. Thanks for listening? And, umm, for not calling the RSPCA or something last night.” His hand turns over beneath Jon’s, until they’re palm to palm, fingers laced together. Jon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly; this feels like the natural end of the conversation, but he wants to make sure. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” he asks as gently as he can. Martin thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“I—I think I’m talked out for the moment,” he says. “I’d really like to get some more sleep, actually.”

“Right,” says Jon, uncertain. “Should I—go, or...?”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Martin hurries to assure him. “I mean, I’ll be sleeping for a few hours, so not exactly high entertainment, but if you wanted to I—I’d like it. We could go out for breakfast later?” 

“Honestly I could do with a couple more hours myself,” Jon says, realizing suddenly how exhausted he is. He didn’t exactly have a restful night’s sleep. Martin smiles, tired but bright. 

“Plenty of room for two?” he suggests.

It only takes a few minutes for the pair of them to make up the bed with fresh sheets. Jon gets a quizzical eyebrow when he asks why Martin stripped the mattress bare in the first place. 

“You’ve never owned a large pet that’s been left at home bored, have you?” 

Jon changes into the usual oversized shorts and t-shirt he borrows when he stays, while Martin strips back down to boxers and undershirt, and they crawl beneath the duvet together. It’s warm, and comfortingly dark with the blackout curtains drawn, and within moments Jon finds sleep tempting him. Before he can drift too far, however, he makes a decision.

“I think I should stay with you next time,” he says. Martin, who’s already buried his face in the pillow, turns to him with an incredulous look.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You won’t hurt me,” says Jon, trying to sound casually confident. “You said yourself, you were happy to see me. A veritable puppy dog.” 

He doesn’t mention the humping; he’s not sure if Martin remembers it, and he doesn’t want to embarrass him. Besides, it was nothing, really. Hardly worth thinking about.

“I could, though,” Martin insists, turning over to face him entirely. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t—I would never _want_ to, but what if I lose control?” 

“You’d be restrained and sedated. And I could get a taser, if it would make you feel better?”

Martin gives a soft snort of amusement.

“Where are you going to get a taser?”

“I’ll have you know it’s remarkably easy to buy a taser in central London,” Jon tells him archly. “If you know the right people.” He doesn’t, of course, but he knows that being silly like this always puts Martin at ease. 

“I really don’t know, Jon.” Martin’s brows twist together anxiously. Jon reaches out under the covers to grasp his hand once again, lacing their fingers. 

“I just don’t like thinking that you have to go through this alone every month. I’d like to be with you.” 

Martin’s eyes go wide and vulnerable, as if the idea that Jon would care enough to want to stay with him through his ordeal is remarkable. After a few moments he gives a soft sigh, and squeezes Jon’s hand. 

“Let’s talk about this later, okay?” he suggests. “I’m not awake enough now to explain why it’s a terrible idea.”

“Absolutely,” says Jon solemnly, though he’s inwardly gleeful in the knowledge that he’s already won the discussion. It will just take Martin a bit more time to admit it. He tugs Martin’s hand up and cradles it to his chest, and falls asleep with the sound of Martin’s breath in his ears. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed we have gone from 3 to 4 chapters, because these two insisted on doing a lot more talking and feelings than I intended them to, oops! Thanks to all of you for sticking with this - next chapter will be the last one, guaranteed! 
> 
> Thank you as always to my wonderful beta fatal_drum for their eagle eye and encouraging comments! <3

Martin digs his heels in for a few more days, humming and hawing over the dangers of Jon being in the room with him during a full moon. However there are, Jon points out, plenty of safety measures they can take, and really it’s not much of a risk at all, and also that there is no way he can expect Jon to just leave him alone like that every month now that he knows, _honestly,_ Martin. 

That last he says with his hands on his hips and belligerent determination in his voice, and when he sees Martin’s eyes go wide and startled he realizes perhaps he’s gone too far.

“Sorry,” he says, raising his hands apologetically. “Sorry, Martin. It’s your decision, of course. I don’t mean to push you, it's just—well, I worry about you.”

Martin doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he sighs.

“Fine,” he says, “If it’ll stop you fussing, I suppose we can try it out. _Once,_ mind you, and then we’ll see.” His tone is exasperated, but his expression is soft, and there’s a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth that says he’s secretly pleased. 

“Absolutely,’ Jon agrees placidly, and Martin gives him a skeptical look. 

“But you will be _very_ careful,” he says, and Jon nods.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll agree to whatever precautions I think are reasonable?”

“Yes, Martin.” 

“Right then,” says Martin. “Good.”

*

“So, what you said about the taser…?”

“That was a joke, and as I told you last time you asked, they are _still_ illegal.”

“Okay, so definitely not?”

“Definitely not.”

*

The night of the full moon, Jon lets himself into Martin’s flat a bit before eleven. The moon has been up for a couple of hours, and by now Martin should be safely sedated—a heavier dose than usual, despite Jon’s protests—restrained, and in his wolf form. (Which is...something Jon still feels very odd even _thinking._ ) One thing Martin was quite adamant about was that Jon not be around during the actual transformation.

“It’s just not something I want to be watched...during,” he explained, and while Jon is desperately curious about that aspect of Martin’s lycanthropy, he respects the boundary. 

The light is on in Martin’s living room, and the sofa is made up with blankets and pillows. The safety measures they agreed to are set out on the kitchen counter, along with a note informing Jon that there’s spaghetti bolognese in the fridge if he’s hungry. 

He’s not hungry. The flat is very quiet, and from here, Jon can see the closed bedroom door; his stomach flutters nervously at the anticipation of what lies beyond it. He has the urge to walk straight in, but Martin suggested he spend some time in the living area first.

“I’ll be able to smell you out there,” he explained, while Jon tried very hard not to find that concept hot as hell. “It will give me a chance to get used to you being there, before you come in.”

Not startling a werewolf seems like a sensible move, so Jon putters around the kitchen for a while, makes a cup of tea that he doesn’t drink and pokes at the objects on the counter. 

The air horn was his idea. Judging by how easily he startled Martin with a shout last time, he thinks it’s a good precaution. The chef’s knife is Martin’s suggestion. Jon got it for him as a gift, after weeks of Martin raving about how good the equipment was at his cooking class, without ever dreaming of buying himself something nice. It’s now his most prized kitchen utensil, always kept shiny and sharp. At his insistence, Jon promised to keep it on him, though he doesn't think he could possibly _use_ it.

Eventually Jon decides it’s been long enough. He pours the cold tea down the sink and rinses out the mug; makes sure his phone is charged in his pocket, and picks up the items from the counter. He doesn't try to be quiet as he approaches the bedroom, and he leaves the hallway light on; when he cracks the door open, the dark room is gently illuminated. 

It’s impossible to miss Martin: a huge, shaggy form curled in the corner, breathing peacefully. There’s a paisley-print blanket tucked under his massive head—the throw blanket from Jon’s sofa. After what Martin said about getting used to his scent, Jon reasoned that having an item on hand that smelled like him could help as well. Judging from the way he’s snuggled up with it, apparently sound asleep, Jon thinks he may have been right.

“Martin?” Jon calls quietly. 

Blue eyes slit open above the pointed snout, and Martin’s tail thumps gently against the floor a few times. Otherwise, he doesn’t react. Jon wonders how much he increased the sedative dosage; is Martin really sure of what he’s doing with that stuff? 

Jon moves slowly down to the end of the bed where Martin’s lying, and sets the air horn, the knife, and his phone on the mattress within arm’s reach. 

“Hi Martin,” he continues, trying to keep his tone even despite how his heart is racing. For all their safeguards, and for all that this is _Martin,_ Jon is still very aware of those long teeth and the ease with which Martin pulled him onto the floor last time. He sits down cross legged, doing his best to be non-threatening, and continues talking conversationally.

“I wrapped up that haunted bookshelf case today,” he says. “I don’t think Olivia was too pleased that I suggested the statement giver seek mental health counselling, but really I think it’s for the best. Either they’re suffering from a delusion or they’re seeking attention, in which case they could stand to examine what’s driving them to do so. I think most people can benefit from therapy, in any case. I keep suggesting you should look into it, if you recall, though I can see how it would be challenging to confide in a therapist, with your...unique condition.”

Martin lets out a heavy huff of breath, his tail still waving. His half-lidded gaze follows Jon’s hand as it lifts and moves carefully towards him. 

“I hope you don’t mind this,” says Jon, “But I’m sure if you do, you’ll let me know in a polite way and not by biting my arm off, right?”

There’s no response, but Martin doesn’t show any sign of distress as Jon’s hand approaches. He lets his palm rest gingerly at the juncture of Martin’s neck and shoulder, feeling the thick, corded muscle beneath the expanse of soft fur. Martin makes a soft whining sound as Jon’s hand settles on him; his mouth falls opens slightly, teeth and tongue visible.

Jon’s been reading up on canine body language over the past few weeks, and he knows that a soft mouth means happy and relaxed. He scratches Martin’s neck. There’s another soft huffing sound, and Martin’s ears twitch slightly. 

“Good boy,” Jon hears himself say out of sheer instinct, and is immediately mortified. He’s fairly sure he shouldn’t call his boyfriend a ‘good boy’ outside of certain specialized scenarios, and right now that is _definitely_ not where he wants his thoughts to wander. Instead, he goes back to telling Martin about his day in low, soothing tones, while stroking his fingers through the thick fur of Martin’s neck and shoulder. 

After a few minutes, Martin whines and rolls ponderously onto his side, mouth lolling and belly exposed. Jon takes the hint and directs his scratching down across the front of Martin’s chest and between his massive arms. As he does, he takes the opportunity for a more thorough examination of werewolf anatomy than he managed last time. 

Martin's form is more humanoid than Jon initially thought. His legs, though jointed like a dog’s, sit beneath his hips in a way that suggests a more or less upright posture. His bulky torso and arms are remarkably human, as are his hands, though his fingers are tipped with blunt, dog-like nails. His fur is a dark russet not unlike Martin’s usual hair color, threaded with whorling patterns like a wolf’s coat. He’s naked, of course; Martin tells Jon that he’s tried leaving clothes on, but always found them ripped up on the floor the next day.

Jon _really_ isn’t trying to be prurient, but he can’t help his gaze lingering on the shape of Martin’s penis, sheathed and half hidden in the thick fur. Another of the more canine aspects of his transformation. 

He still hasn’t said anything to Martin about what happened, last time. He can only assume Martin doesn’t recall, since _that_ would almost certainly have come up in the list of reasons why it’s a bad idea for Jon to be around him like this. There was no way Jon could bring it up without making Martin feel bad, and telling him ‘actually, I might be into that’ is a rather risky proposition. Martin might have been upset or disgusted, or felt that Jon was objectifying him. 

Jon isn’t sure how he feels about it all himself; this isn’t exactly a normal situation. He doesn’t want to raise the topic with Martin until he’s worked through his own feelings and knows where he stands. It was awkward enough when he was debating whether to tell Martin about his taste in fictional furry erotica; figuring out how to tell him ‘I masturbated half a dozen times in the past month to the memory of you pinning me down and humping me’ is...well, awkward doesn’t quite cover it. 

Besides, that’s not why he wanted to be here tonight, and he didn’t want to give Martin even more reason to hesitate. He’s here because he doesn’t want Martin to be alone, at least this once. Maybe every time, if Martin agrees to it. The rest they can figure out later. 

Martin yawns and squirms around until his head is laying on Jon’s thigh, warm and heavy, half-lidded eyes gazing up at him. Jon can’t help himself; he grabs his phone and snaps a handful of photos. Of course to do so he has to stop petting Martin, which results in a whine of complaint.

“Yes, all right, sorry,” Jon tells him, resting one hand back on the broad stretch of Martin’s skull to scratch between his ears. “Honestly, you’re worse than the Admiral.” 

He sits back against the side of the mattress and keeps stroking his boyfriend’s thick fur. The nervousness has dissipated, and he feels almost relaxed, lulled by the deep, even sound of Martin’s breathing. He’ll stay here a while longer, then go and catch a few hours on the sofa, give Martin his privacy for the morning.

*

Jon doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes with Martin twitching and whimpering against him. He’s still unconscious, but his body is jerking involuntarily as—Jon realizes with a start—it reverses its transformation. It’s fascinating to see the thick fur start to retract beneath his skin, his long muzzle shrinking, his joints and muscles twisting unnaturally. Scientifically impossible, Jon would have said only a few weeks ago, but he can’t deny the evidence of his eyes.

He promised not to watch this. He didn’t intend to fall asleep here, of course, but now he's awake he won’t betray Martin’s trust. Jon's left leg is entirely asleep when he stands up; he limps clumsily into the living room, shutting the door behind him. It’s only half past four, but he isn’t going to sleep again at this point. He makes some coffee and sits reading one of Martin’s books, scarcely absorbing a word, until he hears movement from the other room. Then he heads for the kitchen. He’s beating eggs vigorously with a fork when the bedroom door opens and Martin shuffles out, wearing a bathrobe. 

“Morning,” Jon says casually, as if it was the next day after a perfectly normal night. “I’m making breakfast—you have time for a shower, though, if you want?” 

Martin’s expression is somewhere between gratitude and relief, as if he can hardly believe that nothing horrible happened and Jon is still here. He takes a deep breath as if he’s about to say something, then he just flashes a tired smile and heads for the bathroom. 

By the time he emerges, Jon’s made tea and is serving the food up onto plates: scrambled eggs and beans on toast. Martin told him once that it was his favorite breakfast as a child. Jon brushes away Martin’s attempts to help and sends him to sit on the sofa, while he carries plates and cutlery and mugs of tea over to the coffee table. 

“That smells amazing,” says Martin, and his stomach growls loudly in agreement. 

“Hopefully it tastes all right,” says Jon; he’s not sure there’s much you can mess up with scrambled eggs, but you never know. Judging by the appreciative sounds Martin makes as he chews his first mouthful, it’s not bad. 

“So,” Martin says after a few moments. “Last night, was, uh, was everything okay?” 

“Everything went very smoothly,” Jon assures him, and he looks relieved. “You barely woke up at all, and you were very sweet—oh, in fact!”

He grabs his phone and pulls up a photo of Martin dozing, head in his lap. Martin examines it curiously. 

“Wow,” he says. “So that’s what it looks like.”

“You mean you’ve never seen yourself?” 

“Nope,” Martin shrugs. “I mean, my mum wouldn’t...and there wasn’t anyone else. I suppose I could have set up a camcorder or something, but I never really saw the point.”

“Oh,” says Jon, feeling a pang of sympathy. “I could take some more pictures, then, next time? So you can get a better idea.” 

Martin doesn’t say yes, but he also doesn’t say no—and most importantly, he doesn’t say _there won’t be a next time._ Jon decides to consider that a step forward and leave it alone for now.

“One thing,” he says. “I fell asleep, accidentally, and I only woke up when you were starting to, ah, change back. I didn’t mean to, but I did see just a bit, before I left the room.”

“Oh,” says Martin, his tone cryptic.

“I’m sorry,” says Jon. “It really was an accident.” 

“It’s okay, Jon, I believe you. It’s not a big thing, honestly, just...a bit embarrassing, I suppose? Like someone walking in when you’re on the toilet.”

“Well I won’t let it happen again. Unless you give me permission,” Jon amends, and Martin laughs. 

“Typical researcher,” he teases, his tone fond. Then his voice goes soft. “Thanks, Jon.”

“For what?”

“For convincing me it would be okay, I suppose. For wanting to be around through...all this.” Martin waves a vague hand at himself. “It was really nice, having you here when I woke up.” 

He takes a hasty bite of his toast, his face faintly red, and Jon smiles and doesn’t say anything.

*

Two things happen, before the next full moon. 

The first—and certainly the most momentous—is that Jon tells Martin he loves him. 

Since Jon learned the truth, it’s as if something has opened up in Martin. All the time they’ve known each other, he’s revealed pieces of himself with painful slowness, as if fearful of being hurt. Jon’s always had the sense that Martin is acutely careful with his emotions, giving affection freely but never asking too much, protecting himself from the ordeal of being known. 

Now though, things are different. It’s not quite a dam bursting, but Martin is noticeably more open, more willing to ask for what he wants from Jon and from their relationship. It feels as if they’re growing closer, understanding each other better, and one thing that Jon comes to understand is that the more he knows Martin, the more he loves him. 

It’s a bit scary, because Georgie is the only other person Jon’s ever been in love with, and that didn’t exactly work out long term. (At this point in their friendship, Georgie has more or less convinced Jon that he didn’t ruin things single-handedly, it was just a case of fundamental incompatibility, but he can’t quite kill the invasive thought that _he did and he always will._ ) Jon’s never been great at that ‘mortifying ordeal’ stuff himself, and he spends a lot of time considering what he should do with the knowledge that he is in love with Martin Blackwood. 

In the end it slips out unexpectedly. Jon is cooking dinner one evening, while Martin sits on the other side of his kitchen counter, drinking a glass of wine and regaling him with stories about the academic library conference he’s just spent two days at. He pokes fun at the foibles of stodgy lecturers and over-eager students, and it has Jon snorting with laughter as he slices the vegetables for ratatouille. Martin’s impression of one pompous academic, with whom Jon is painfully familiar, is so ridiculous and yet so accurate, that he has to put his knife down while his shoulders shake with mirth. 

“Oh, my god,” Jon gasps for breath, tears in his eyes, while Martin grins delightedly at him. “That is just—god, I love you!” 

Things go very silent for a moment as Jon realizes what he’s said, and Martin gapes at him, wide-eyed and suddenly red to the tips of his ears. After a few seconds Jon clears his throat, and Martin gulps down half his glass of wine. 

“Well,” says Jon.

“Do you mean that?” Martin demands. Jon sets his jaw and nods. His heart is pounding, but regardless of how Martin feels about it, he’ll just have to deal with the truth. 

“I did,” he says. “I love you.” 

“Oh,” says Martin weakly. “Oh, well, I suppose I—I love you too.”

“You _suppose?”_ Jon raises an eyebrow, because even though his heart is singing, he can’t pass up an opportunity to tease Martin about this. Martin makes a face at him, though a soppy grin threatens to break through at any moment. 

“Oh you know what I mean,” he says, and when Jon doesn’t budge: “I love you, Jon.” 

“Right, well,” says Jon, feeling an equally foolish grin stretch itself across his face. “That’s good, then.” 

He picks up his knife, and then sets it down again when he realizes his hands are trembling. 

“Maybe I’ll just give it a minute,” he says. Instead he reaches across and takes Martin’s hand in his, and they stay like that for a while. 

*

The second thing that happens is that they have sex. 

It’s a Sunday morning, and they are curled up in Martin’s bed with nowhere to be and nothing to do all day. Jon is tucked up in the warm expanse of Martin’s arms, feeling the slow rise and fall of Martin’s chest against his back. (He’d be lying if he said this didn’t remind him of the night he spent with Martin’s head resting in his lap, the calm sound of Martin’s breathing in his ears.) Jon is utterly content and relaxed, and when he recognizes the hard shape of Martin’s cock pressing against his arse, he finds he doesn’t actually mind. In fact, he thinks, he wouldn’t even mind it going further.

They’ve found time to talk about it, since that night on Martin’s sofa. Jon armed them both with tips from his therapist on setting boundaries, and the discussion was good and honest, if a little cautious. They agreed that, at least as they start to explore this aspect of their relationship, they’re both okay with Jon being the one to initiate and guide any sexual encounters—assuming that Martin also wants to proceed. But this is the first time it’s come up in practice. 

Jon thinks for a moment, and then squirms closer against Martin, to make sure that he wasn’t imagining the press of Martin’s erection against him. He definitely wasn’t, and Martin makes a small choked sound by his ear. 

“Are you aroused right now, Martin?” Jon asks, and is rewarded with another sound, this one slightly squeaky. Martin seems to find any sexual talk from his mouth astoundingly filthy, and Jon knows he can take full advantage of that. “I can feel your erection, so I’m fairly sure you are.” 

“I’m, uh—yeah, I’m kind of...excited,” Martin says, his voice breathy. He sounds unsure, but he doesn’t move away, trusting Jon to tell him if he should. “You feel so good, it’s difficult not to be.”

“Hmm…” Jon muses, and cants his hips back, pushing his arse against Martin’s erection. He’s mildly horny himself, and there’s something enticing about knowing he has this effect on Martin. He’s also aware that he’s in control here, as they agreed: he’ll take the lead and Martin won’t do anything without his guidance. It’s a thrilling thought that he’d like to explore, and it sends a little shiver through him all the way down to his groin. 

“I’d like to get you off,” he tells Martin. “Maybe me too, I’m not sure yet. I don’t want to take any clothes off, but I’d like you to rub your cock against me through my clothes. If you’d like to?”

“Right,” says Martin breathlessly, seeming not to notice the way his arms tighten a little around Jon. “I, umm—yeah, that sounds good. What about my hands? Where can I touch you?”

“Anywhere along my side, hip, leg is fine, for now. If I want you to touch anywhere else I’ll move your hand there, if that’s okay?” 

“Fine! Of course. Can I kiss your neck?”

“Always,” Jon says, and shivers when Martin does just that, brushing soft kisses from the top of his spine around to the soft dip of his throat. Martin’s hand comes to rest on his hip, anchoring him gently, and then Martin pushes forward, the bulge of his cock hard beneath his pajamas. After a few thrusts Martin’s cock slips against the cleft of Jon’s arse and Martin groans. He rocks them gently, his hand stroking up and down over Jon’s side, while his other arm holds Jon close against him. He kisses Jon’s throat and ear and jaw, and Jon feels heat slowly building between his thighs. He squeezes his legs together, feeling his cock jump, and bites his lip. 

Daring, he takes Martin’s hand in his and guides it down to his groin. Martin’s hand is big, and it presses solid and warm against him, his palm moulding over Jon’s cock. 

“Let me…” Jon breathes, and Martin nods against his shoulder.

“Whatever you want,” he says, still rocking, rolling Jon’s body with his, and Jon holds Martin’s hand there while he grinds his hips against it. He doesn’t think about anything but the feeling of Martin close against him, tender kisses pressed to his skin, waves of arousal rising slowly, inevitably as he chases sweet release. 

Jon comes with a gasp and a bitten off cry, and he’s still shaking through the aftershocks when Martin’s stuttering breath turns to a drawn out moan. Martin’s hips thrust a few more times and then still, and Martin sighs against his ear. He holds Jon close to his chest, and Jon imagines he can feel Martin’s heartbeat pulsing up his spine. They’re quiet there for a few moments, and then Martin says:

“Is this okay, or would you like some space?”

“This is lovely,” Jon tells him, and snuggles closer. He feels unpleasantly sticky between his thighs, and he’s fairly sure he can feel the wet spot where Martin came starting to soak through the layers of their clothes, but he also feels sated and safe, and he doesn’t want to break this little bubble of intimacy, not just yet. 

“And that was—that was all okay?” Martin sounds hesitant, and Jon rolls his eyes even as he feels warmed by Martin’s concern for him.

 _“Yes,_ Martin,” he says with fond exasperation. “That was all very nice—I promise, I would have let you know if it wasn’t. Did you enjoy it?”

“It was...amazing,” Martin says blissfully, and Jon smiles. He might not quite get what all the fuss is about with sex, but he loves hearing Martin so happy. He just loves Martin, in general. 

“I love you,” he says, because he hasn’t said it in a little while and it bears repeating. Martin leans forward and kisses his cheek. 

“Fine,” he teases, “You can have the shower first,” and Jon laughs. 

*

It’s not precisely either of those things that convinces Jon they need to talk about... _it._ But it feels like their relationship is moving forward, and with the introduction of sex into the equation—even if only occasionally—it feels more and more dishonest to withhold the truth about his desires. 

Those feelings coalesce one night while Jon is fucking himself desperately on a thick vibe, looking through the pictures he took of Martin on the full moon, that heavy snout with its long, lolling tongue nestled against his upper thigh. He's imagining how it would feel for Martin to nuzzle into his crotch and lick the fabric wet and clinging against him, until Jon is squirming helplessly with pleasure. Martin would grasp his hips and flip him over with barely an effort, drag Jon’s trousers down and push his cock inside, growling and nipping at his ear and his neck— 

—and then he’s remembering Martin rocking against him, kissing his throat tenderly, and he tries to sink back into the fantasy but now it's tainted with guilt. Martin was so gentle with him when they had sex, so careful with Jon’s trust. And Martin’s trusted _him_ so much, with a hidden and painful part of himself; to use that for his own sexual gratification feels far too much like a betrayal of that trust. 

Jon switches the vibe off and rolls over onto his back with a sigh. He has to talk to Martin about this. But first, he needs advice. 

*

“I have a, uh, a rather unusual kink,” he tells his therapist, feeling his face heat slightly; even though she’s long proven that she’ll never judge him for anything he says in their sessions, it’s still a touch embarrassing. “It’s been a very significant part of my—my sexual fantasies for a long time.”

“Have you ever engaged in it in real life? Or only in fantasy?” 

“No, no, it’s—” Jon stops short of saying that it’s impossible in real life, or at least that he _thought_ it was, and finishes: “I’ve never actually, uh, done it. But I want to tell Martin about it. Things have been...really good between us, lots of communication and honesty and it’s been—it’s been great.” 

“So you want to share this part of yourself with him.”

“It’s more...I feel as if I’m not being fully honest with him if I don’t.”

“I see,” she says. “Do you want to engage in this kink with Martin?” 

Oh and _there’s_ the crux of it, isn’t it? Jon clears his throat, feeling his hands wring together, a nervous habit from childhood that he’s never quite purged himself of. A habit he’s less embarrassed about, since Martin told him he’s glad of it, because it helps him know when Jon isn’t comfortable. 

“I—I would like to, yes. But he wouldn’t, it’s not—umm, I suppose you could describe it as edgeplay? There’s—there would be some potential...risk to me, and I know Martin wouldn’t take that chance.” 

“But it’s a risk you would be willing to take.”

“With him, yes. I—I trust him.” Jon bites his lip. “Do you think I should tell him?” 

“That you have this particular kink?” she asks, “Or that you want to explore it with him?” 

“I, uh, either I suppose? Both?” 

“I am always in favor of open communication, and you’ve said yourself, you believe the increasing honesty in your relationship has been beneficial, right?”

“Yes,” Jon nods. 

“From what you’ve told me about Martin, I don’t think that learning you have an unusual kink will drive him away, do you?”

“No,” Jon says. “No, I don’t think so?”

“So at worst, you have more honesty in your relationship, and you’ll know where you stand. And at best...well, who knows what he’ll say?” She gives him a brisk smile, tapping her pen against the table. “Of course I can’t encourage you to engage in risky activity. But you’re an adult, and you’re aware of your own boundaries and risk tolerance, so I won’t tell you what not to do either. Just be safe, and remember that you can always talk to me about it.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Right, I—that makes a lot of sense, thank you. I’ll—I’ll talk to him.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Now, we’re near the end of our time, but I want to hear how you’re doing with setting boundaries on out of hours work?” 

*

Jon decides that he’ll bring it up the following night, when he’ll be at Martin’s place. He and Martin are at each other’s flats most nights now, he’s noticed, to the extent that they’ve each started keeping small necessities in the other’s home; yet another step forward that they haven’t quite acknowledged out loud. 

Martin makes dinner and Jon does the dishes, and afterwards they play the new cooperative board game Martin’s bought, which has a number of very silly rules that have the two of them in gales of laughter even as they utterly fail at their task. Once they’ve admitted defeat, they curl up on the sofa and Jon finds an old episode of ‘Time Team’ on the telly that they can half pay attention to. His stomach is fluttering with nerves, and he repeats once more in his head the words he’s prepared and practiced. Just as he’s about to start talking, however, Martin says:

“It’s the full moon in three days. Do you still want to come over?” His tone is carefully casual, as if prepared for rejection.

“Yes, of course,” Jon says. “If it’s still all right with you?” 

“It was good having you there, last time,” says Martin. “I really think it made it all easier. I felt...better than I usually do, afterwards.”

“I’m glad,” Jon says, and he is—terribly glad, in fact, of the smile on Martin’s face, as if he’s never imagined being so hopeful about the full moon. 

“I was thinking,” Martin continues, “I might even reduce the sedatives? Not too much, obviously, but things went so well last time, maybe we can experiment with a lower dosage.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” says Jon. Martin cuddles closer to him and grasps Jon’s hand, pulling it up to kiss the back of his knuckles.

“Thanks Jon,” he says. “I, uh, I never really thought I’d get to be honest with anyone about this stuff, you know? I—I just...thanks.”

“Oh,” says Jon. "You're welcome, of course. It, ah, it means a lot to me too." 

He knows right then that he can’t tell Martin about it, not now. Martin is only just beginning to gain trust in himself—in sharing this with Jon—and Jon can’t give him any reason to doubt that. It’s selfish, to care more about his own urges than about Martin’s comfort. This is still all so new, for both of them; they need to take it one step at a time.

He’ll tell Martin, he really will, but not right now. Maybe after this next moon. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been a while to get this out, life did a great job of getting in the way. I did promise one more part, however that part ended up being twice as long as previous chapters. I've split it in two for ease of reading, and am posting both parts at once. 
> 
> Many thanks to the fantastic fatal_drum for their keen editing eye! 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys the end to this little domestic saga!

Jon doesn’t tell Martin after the next moon. 

It’s not that he doesn’t intend to, it’s just that things are going so _well._ Reducing the sedative dose has no ill effects; Martin is more alert that night, and thoroughly affectionate, butting his heavy snout against Jon’s shoulder and trying to get him to play. Their improvised tug of war with a sweatshirt ends when Martin tears the fabric to shreds, and Jon makes a mental note to buy some more durable playthings for next month. 

“What is that?” Martin asks a couple of days later, when he sees Jon scrolling through pet supplies on his laptop. 

“It’s a food dispenser toy,” Jon explains. “You put treats inside, and it’s a game to get them out.” 

“Okay, and you know I’m not actually a dog, right?” 

_“Obviously,_ Martin, but enrichment is important for any individual in isolation—humans included. It’s just an idea. There are plenty of other things we can try.” 

Martin looks skeptically at him and sighs.

“Fine,” he says, “But no squeaky toys.” 

“Of course not,” Jon scoffs, and surreptitiously deletes them from his basket. He makes a list of other things that Martin might enjoy in his altered state: books, podcasts, music. Is Martin’s palate different as a wolf, he wonders, more carnivorous? He adds _‘meat chews???’_ to the list. 

Jon knows he’s approaching this rather analytically. Not because he intends to turn his boyfriend into a research subject, but because this is the best way he knows to figure out the boundaries of their situation. Martin doesn’t seem to mind, but he also doesn’t seem inclined to make any changes himself, the habits too ingrained in him through repetition or fear. If anything is going to change, Jon has to be the one to suggest it. 

“When’s the last time you didn’t medicate yourself for the full moon?” he asks, a week or so after the success of the last moon.

“Umm, never?” Martin says, as if it should be obvious. “I mean, the first time it happened, I suppose, but I don’t really remember that too well. After that my mum got me the sedatives.”

“Your mother sedated you when you were _twelve?”_ Jon is horrified, and it must show on his face because Martin gives a defensive shrug.

“She didn’t want me to hurt myself, or anyone else. She was doing her best, Jon.”

Jon rather questions whether that’s the case, but Martin’s relationship with his mother is a wound he doesn’t want to poke at, so he tries a different approach.

“I’ve been reading up on trazodone. Apparently it can affect cognitive function and impair memory—you’ve mentioned you don’t remember much from full moon nights. It’s possible you might be more yourself on a lower dose.”

“Huh,” says Martin. “Really?”

“I think we could try lowering the dose further,” Jon suggests. “What do you think?” 

Martin hesitates, chewing nervously on his lower lip, and finally nods. 

“Okay,” he says. “But you need to be careful, all right? Any sign of... _anything_ , you don’t hesitate to defend yourself.”

“I promise,” Jon tells him. 

The next full moon, Martin is sitting up when Jon comes into the room, tail wagging in greeting. He makes all sorts of pleased whining and rumbling sounds while Jon unpacks the bag of items he’s brought with him. There’s the rubber food dispenser toy, some dried pigs’ ears that look thoroughly unappetizing, a thick, knotted length of rope, plus a couple of books that Jon knows Martin’s been meaning to read. He also has several episodes of a true crime podcast loaded up on his phone; Jon can take them or leave them, but Martin is a big fan. 

“Right,” he says. “What would you like to start with?”

Martin easily tears open the heavy duty rubber toy, and then disregards it, turning his nose up at the dry food pellets inside. The pigs’ ears are a hit, however, and he crunches his way through half a dozen of them over the course of the night. They spend some time playing tug of war with the rope, and even though Jon can tell that Martin’s being gentle—and is also at the distinct disadvantage of being cuffed to a radiator—he’s sure he’ll be feeling the strain in his arms tomorrow. 

“Okay, all right, you win,” he pants at last, releasing his end of the rope and sitting down on the floor. Martin holds it in his mouth for a moment, then drops it and flops down beside him, his head in Jon’s lap. Jon strokes his head and scratches at his ears, and Martin’s tongue swipes at his arm in return. His blue eyes gaze up at Jon, and there is something so endearing about this version of him, stripped of any anxiety or pretense, pure and simple id. 

“I love you, you know,” Jon murmurs to him. “I know you find it hard to believe that I can love this part of you, but I do, Martin. I love all of you.” 

Martin only yawns in response and licks his arm again, and Jon smiles. 

“All right,” he says, reaching for a book. “I know you’ve been putting off _'_ _Gravity’s Rainbow',_ so how about we get a start on that, hmm?”

*

Jon doesn’t tell Martin after that moon, either, or after the next one. _Soon,_ he promises himself, _soon, it’s just not the right time yet._

They reduce the sedatives further, until the dose is half and then a quarter of what Martin’s been taking for years. He seems not only more alert, but more lucid, his eyes clear and cognizant of what’s going on. 

“I don’t feel as confused,” he says when Jon asks, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I know I’m at home, so it feels less like being trapped.” He gives a small smile. “And it helps that you’re there.” 

“Can you understand what I’m saying?”

“A bit? Mostly I’m picking up emotions, body language, smell, but I can sort of generally grasp what you’re saying to me. Not enough to follow the plot of _‘Gravity’s Rainbow’_ , though.”

“To be fair," Jon tells him, "That’s quite a task for someone with their full faculties intact."

Despite the success of their experiments, Martin is still anxious about the violent potential of his wolf form, so Jon reassures him the best way he knows how: with facts.

“I’ve done a lot of research on shapeshifting,” he tells Martin. “And yes, many mythologies treat it as an affliction or a curse. But there are just as many shapeshifters who are harmless tricksters—or even benevolent.”

“I’ve never heard of a benevolent werewolf,” Martin snorts. 

“Well, the werewolf myth in Europe specifically tends to be treated as a stand in for, uh, for carnality.” Jon clears his throat, feeling his neck heat embarrassingly. “Red Riding Hood lost in the woods and all that, the innocent young woman and the brutal beast having his way with her?”

“Umm, really?” says Martin, wide eyed, and Jon hastens on.

“What I’m saying is that you can’t take those things as truth. There may have been some level of cultural awareness of people with your condition, but it was misunderstood and unfairly vilified.” He lets his voice go soft as he continues: “You’re not a monster, Martin. Whatever your mother may have told you.”

What Martin’s mother told him, Jon knows by now, is that it was inevitable that he would eventually hurt or kill someone if he wasn’t chained up and dosed with sedatives. Martin’s never harmed anyone, but he’s lived in fear of it for nearly two decades. Jon likes to think that he’s not a hateful person, but he sincerely hopes he never meets the woman; he’s not sure he could control his anger if he did. He doesn’t say that, of course, for Martin’s sake. Instead he just takes Martin’s hand between both of his, holding his reluctant gaze. 

“Do you ever think that you might hurt me, in between moons? Do you ever _want_ to hurt me?”

“No! Of course not, Jon—”

“Then you won’t hurt me.” 

Martin stares wordlessly at him for a few moments, and then gives a helpless sort of laugh. 

“You’re very convincing, do you know that?” 

“Says the man who successfully faked a Master’s degree,” Jon teases, and Martin rolls his eyes.

*

Their one year anniversary comes—how on earth has it been a _year_ already?—and they spend a long weekend at a little cottage in the Scottish highlands. They’re hidden away from the world, taking long walks during the day and curling up by the fire at night. It’s all disgustingly romantic, and Jon hasn’t been this happy in years. 

“I’m, uh, I’m considering asking Martin to move in with me,” he tells his therapist at their next session. “We already spend most nights together, it makes logical sense to formalize the arrangement.”

“Perhaps don’t state it _exactly_ that way to him.” She smiles wryly. “Have you two discussed the possibility yet?” 

“Not as such, but...I think he might like the idea.” He really might, Jon realizes, and the thought sends a warm giddy rush through him.

 _But I’ll tell him first,_ he assures himself. _If we move in together, I don’t want any secrets._

*

After months of cautious experimentation, they spend their first full moon night without sedatives or restraints. 

It’s rather alarming when Jon pushes open the bedroom door and sees Martin, not cuffed at floor level, but standing at his full six and a half feet height—taller even than he is in human form. He looks far more like a predator this way, poised on legs like coiled springs, muscles shifting beneath his fur as he surveys the room. Jon swallows his nerves and calls as casually as he can:

“Martin, do you want to come out to the living room?” 

Martin tips his head curiously to one side and gives a little whining grumble; one hand curls against his chest, the way a dog might lift a hesitant paw. After all these years of locking himself up in the dark, he seems unsure about stepping into the light, and Jon’s heart breaks for him all over again. 

“Come on,” he says, stepping back from the door to show the open hallway behind him. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” 

Martin’s head tilts the other way, and he takes a step in Jon’s direction, then another. He pauses again at the doorway, his ears flattened anxiously against his head and his mouth drawn tight. He looks at Jon and whines again. 

“It’s okay,” Jon repeats, reaching up slowly until his hand is resting on Martin’s shoulder. Jon strokes the soft fur reassuringly, and then backs up into the hallway. Martin follows, hesitantly, head swiveling around and nose twitching as he sniffs the air. 

Once they’re in the living room he begins to cautiously explore, pacing around the room on long legs, sniffing at the furniture and pawing clumsily at books and ornaments. His hands _look_ human, Jon has noticed, but he doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with them in wolf form, preferring to manipulate objects with his mouth. Martin scratches at the handle of the front door and whines, turning to look hopefully at Jon. 

“Absolutely not,” Jon tells him, and Martin grumbles and stalks over to look around the kitchen, his toenails clicking on the linoleum. Jon goes and sits on the sofa, letting him explore at his leisure. The sight is rather endearing, as Martin’s ears perk up curiously, his tail wagging gently while he pokes his nose into everything. After a couple of minutes, Martin turns and looks at him, his mouth grinning open, and then drops onto all fours, bowing playfully. 

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” says Jon, and that’s as far as he gets before Martin is bounding onto the sofa alongside him, almost bowling him over with enthusiasm. His long, wet tongue swipes over Jon’s face again and again, until Jon is snorting with laughter and squirming out of the way. 

“All right, all right,” he says, pushing Martin back firmly. “Yes, I’m happy you’re out here with me too.” Martin lets himself be pushed away, and crouches awkwardly on the sofa cushions, tongue lolling, blue eyes bright and delighted. He looks almost smug at the sight of Jon wiping his sleeve over his slobbery face. 

“All right,” Jon says again. “How about we calm down and watch some television? See if you enjoy it?” He pats his thigh invitingly, and Martin obliges, slumping into his lap with a happy sigh. Jon scratches him between the ears, and then reaches for the remote control.

It’s all going so well; Jon’s going to tell him very soon.

*

The evening of the next moon, they’re sprawled out on Martin’s sofa, kissing lazily. Jon is on his back, head cushioned on one of Martin’s arms while Martin’s other hand is cupped to his cheek, thumb gently stroking over his cheekbone. He feels wanton, his knees hiked up so his thighs pinion Martin’s hips, luxuriating in the warm weight of Martin’s body pressing down on his. It feels safe and intimate, the soft press of Martin’s lips on his, meeting breath to breath, Martin holding him so protectively. 

Jon thinks he could get into this, and it seems Martin does too, his erection poking against the seam of Jon’s inner thigh. Martin will have to go to the bedroom soon, as the moon rises and his change comes on, but not just yet. They have some time. Jon lets his hands wander down Martin’s back, rucking his t-shirt up to feel the heat of his skin, grabbing his arse to tug him closer. Martin gives a low, animalistic growl and ruts hard against him, his hand clutching at Jon’s hair, his weight pinning Jon. It sends a shiver down Jon’s spine, equal parts discomfort and excitement. 

He doesn’t enjoy being pushed down like this, normally, reminds him too much of the aggressive sexual expectations of past partners he’s had. But it also reminds him of the wolf, his fantasies of being taken and pleasured with no choice but to succumb, and that sends heat pooling low in his groin. Martin’s hands clutch him tighter, hard enough to hurt, and Jon hears himself whimper with something between fear and desire. 

Then Martin is pulling away and sitting up, flushed and panting, his eyes wide. He scoots back until there’s a few inches of space between them, letting Jon sit up as well.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin says, his voice high and anxious, though there’s still a hint of that growl to it. “I got a bit carried away—did I hurt you?”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon grouses. He feels a touch affronted, as if Martin thinks he can’t look out for himself. “Or it _was_ fine, rather. Why did you stop?”

“You didn’t say you wanted to.” Jon is about to protest that he thought he was making his intentions _quite_ obvious, but he forces the words back. They agreed to get explicit verbal consent before any sexual activity; Martin did the right thing.

“Well, I’m saying so now, if you do?” 

Martin runs a hand through his mop of hair, disarraying it even more in a way that’s very appealing. His erection is tenting out his trousers, and he’s still deeply flushed.

“I’m not sure we should. This time of the month, I’m not too good at controlling myself. I’m...uh, I’m not sure I’d be able to stop, if you told me to. Which is not any kind of excuse!” he rushes onwards. “Just...probably a reason why I shouldn’t put both of us in that situation. Is—is that okay?”

He looks anxious, and Jon realizes that this is the first time Martin’s ever turned him down for sex. 

“Oh, Martin,” he says, “Of course it’s okay. Just because I might be in the mood doesn’t mean you have to be—I would never want you to feel obligated.” 

“I know,” says Martin, “I just don’t want you to ever feel like, well, like I don’t want you. You know?”

“I know,” Jon says, and feels his chest fill to bursting with love for this man. He opens up his arms for a hug. “Come here?”

“Umm, maybe give it a few minutes?” says Martin, blushing even brighter red. “Just...right now you smell so good, it’s, umm, it’s very distracting.” 

“Of course,” says Jon, and offers his hand instead. Martin takes it, and squeezes, and they settle back onto the sofa with a respectable amount of space between them. Jon can still feel arousal writhing in his belly, but it’s fine. He can take care of it tomorrow, when he gets home. 

Later, once the moon has risen, Jon goes to let Martin out of the bedroom; he still hasn’t been invited to witness the transformation, and curious as he is, he respects Martin’s privacy.

Things seem normal at first; Martin makes his usual round of the living room and kitchen to ensure everything is correct, by whatever metric makes sense to his wolfish mind. Then he comes and sprawls out across Jon’s legs like an enormous, furry blanket while Jon works on a case file, reading the details out loud. They’ve concluded that Martin is more interested in the sound of Jon’s voice than in the actual content of what he’s reading, so Jon’s taken that as permission to get some extra work done on the full moon. 

After a while, though, Martin grows restless, wriggling in his place on the sofa. Jon doesn’t pay much attention, until suddenly Martin twists and his snout is pressed into Jon’s crotch, nuzzling firmly. 

“Martin!” Jon yelps, more surprised than alarmed, and then drops his case file to the floor as Martin gives a low whine and _licks._ His tongue is long and surprisingly muscular, and Jon feels its press through the thin cotton pajama bottoms he’s wearing, the fabric going damp. Martin licks his crotch again, his hands grasping clumsily at Jon’s hips, and Jon feels the banked heat from earlier flaring into sharp arousal. He can smell his own wetness and he knows Martin can too, nuzzling hungrily into his groin, his nose rubbing from Jon’s cock down to his cunt. 

Jon can see the slick, red shape of Martin’s cock poking out of his fur, thick and tapered, and he feels another rush of heat go through him as Martin’s nails scrabble at his pajamas, trying to hook into the waistband. Martin keeps licking him, the fabric between his thighs now soaked and clinging, and Jon hears himself moan helplessly. He is dizzy with excitement. 

This is all his deepest fantasies come to life. He could just let himself go limp, let Martin have his way, lick him open and fuck deep into him. It wouldn’t be his fault, Martin’s so much stronger than him. Wouldn’t be either of their fault; Martin can’t control himself like this, after all. They could talk about it, afterwards, and it would be okay, and at least he would have had this _once._

_And Martin would never forgive himself._

That thought is a bucket of cold water over Jon’s head. He sits bolt upright and shoves hard at Martin’s shoulders; it’s like shoving a wall.

“No, Martin!” he snaps, putting all the force he can into his tone. “Stop it right now!” 

Martin lifts his head from Jon’s crotch to look at him, his ears flattened unhappily. He whines. 

“No!” Jon says firmly. He pushes at Martin again, and this time the suggestion seems to take; Martin retreats to the far end of the sofa, ears low and tail tucked, panting anxiously. Jon stands up, feeling shaky, and grabs the throw blanket and a couple of cushions from the sofa. Martin is staring at him, still panting, and he slips off the sofa to follow as Jon backs away towards the bedroom.

“No, Martin,” Jon tells him, his heart racing. “Stay there. I think it’s best if we discuss this in the morning, don’t you?” 

Martin gives a growling whimper and keeps coming, crouched down on all fours with his tail drooping between his legs. He seems more confused than aggressive, but it still feels like being stalked, and something akin to panic coils in Jon’s stomach as he backs up to the bedroom door. 

“Stay out here, Martin,” he says firmly. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?”

He shuts the bedroom door with Martin on the other side, and clicks the latch into place. There’s a sound of scratching at the wood, a few whining growls from Martin, and then a low, mournful howl. Jon hears him pacing back and forth for a while, agitated, but eventually the sound stops.

Jon kicks off his drool-soaked pajamas and boxers, and curls up on the bed with his blanket and cushions, waiting for his heart to stop racing. It’s a long time before he gets to sleep. 

*

Jon wakes to the sound of hesitant knocking on the door. He opens his eyes, groggy and disoriented. 

“Jon? Are—are you okay? Can I come in?” Martin sounds upset, and it takes a second before Jon remembers why. 

_Oh god,_ he thinks, _last night, I almost—_

“If you don’t want me to, that’s fine—more than fine,” Martin continues. “I can leave, let you have the place to yourself, if you don’t feel comfortable with me being here?”

Jon leaps off the bed, wrapping the blanket around his waist as he scrambles to unlock the door. Martin’s expression is startled when he yanks it open, and then he immediately starts apologizing, his hands waving with distress in front of him.

“Jon, I’m so sorry, this was such a terrible idea—I never should have put you in a position where I could hurt you, I’m so, so sorry—”

“Martin!” Jon interrupts. “It’s okay—stop panicking.” 

“I’m not _panicking!”_ Martin protests reflexively, then shakes his head. “That’s not—god, Jon, are you all right?” 

“I’m fine, Martin. Really. I, uh, I could use a cup of tea, though?”

“Right, tea!” Martin rushes off to put the kettle on. Jon fetches his trousers from where they’re hanging in Martin’s wardrobe, and pulls them on. His heart is racing almost as much as it did last night, and he takes a few long, deep breaths in and out to steady himself. 

Martin’s fishing tea bags out of mugs when he emerges, and really, it’s rather stereotypically English of them to keep having these conversations over tea, but here they are. Jon takes a mug over to the sofa with him, while Martin perches hesitantly at the far end.

“Is this...okay?” he asks, his voice small. 

“Of _course,_ Martin. You haven’t done anything wrong. Last night you were just—a bit worked up, from earlier in the evening.”

“How can you be so...blasé about this, Jon? You’re acting as if being sexually assaulted by a werewolf happens to you every weekend!” 

Jon’s expression must give something away, because all the blood suddenly drains from Martin’s face, his eyes going wide.

“Has this happened before?” he demands, and Jon isn’t going to lie to him.

“Ahh, just the once,” he says. “The first time I was here, in fact? It was, ah, rather the same situation, actually—remember, we were messing about on the sofa before I left?”

“I remember,” says Martin, his tone hollow. “And that night when you came back I, uh, I...” He looks sick, as if he can’t bear to say the words. 

“You tried to...hump me, just a bit? It was really nothing, you stopped right away when I told you off.”

“Oh god,” Martin groans, “I don’t even _remember_ that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I thought it would just upset you—and frankly, I thought you’d use it as an excuse to stop me from spending full moons with you.”

“An _excuse!_ Jon, I tried to—to _rape_ you. That’s a pretty bloody good excuse, if you ask me!”

“You didn’t—” Jon huffs with exasperation, then takes a slow, deep breath. He’s careful to keep his tone even when he continues talking. “It wasn’t rape, Martin. Either time. I told you to stop, and you stopped _._ Do you remember what you were thinking, last night?”

Martin swallows hard, his cheeks flushing guiltily. His hands clench into fists on his knees. 

“You smelled...amazing. I could tell that you were a-aroused. I wanted you, and there was no reason not to—to have you. I can’t exactly articulate, but I _knew_ you were mine. Sort of like...you were my mate, I suppose?”

Martin’s face is flaming now, and Jon feels his own cheeks heat at the possessive implication of his words. He clears his throat. 

“I—I suppose I am, when you think about it from a biological perspective. I’m not sure that werewolf behavior is _exactly_ analogous to canines, but there do seem to be a lot of similarities, and pair bonding in wolves is very strong.”

“Well, whatever the scientific reasoning behind it, it’s not safe,” says Martin, his tone resigned. “I might have stopped the last time—” 

“Two times,” Jon interjects.

“Fine, two times, but who’s to say about next time? We can’t take that risk.”

“It’s a manageable risk,” Jon argues. “We know it’s only happened on nights when we both got...excited, before your change.” 

“That’s not good enough, Jon!” Martin’s voice is going high and upset. “There’s no level of—of _acceptable risk,_ here. I’m not taking the chance of me _ever_ hurting you like that.”

His expression is distraught, eyes wide and on the verge of tears, and Jon can’t bear to see him like this. Can’t bear the idea of Martin going back to his solitary nights, sedated and handcuffed. And really this is it, isn’t it? The moment of truth. Jon takes a deep breath; his heart is racing.

“What if I want you to?”

“What?” Martin’s tone is bewildered. Jon can feel his hands shaking, and sets his mug down before he spills it. 

“I, ahh—bloody hell this is difficult to say—I...Martin, I liked it.” 

“Jon,” Martin says, his tone very careful. “I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain?” 

Without the mug to occupy his hands, Jon feels them start to twist together nervously, embarrassingly. He sees Martin’s eyes flick to his hands for a moment, recognizing the gesture, and then Martin gives him a cautious, encouraging smile. Jon nods slowly, and gathers his thoughts. 

“I have a—a kink,” he begins. “It involves sex with anthropomorphic animals. Wolves, specifically. It’s, ah, it’s always been only a fantasy, of course, played out in my imagination or through pornography—of which there is a surprising amount available online, anthro erotica really is very popular, there’s a whole subculture, or a sub-subculture I suppose—”

“Jon,” Martin says gently, breaking the train of his exposition. Jon swallows and nods again, grateful.

“I, uh, I obviously never thought I would encounter my...kink in real life, but I—when you, uh, when you got excited and—and tried to have sex with me, I...was aroused by it. I liked it.”

Martin doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he says:

“Oh.”

“The ridiculous thing is that I was intending to tell you about my...tastes,” Jon says, feeling the words rush out of him now that he’s started. “But then once I found out you were an actual, real life _werewolf_ , well...I was rather concerned that it would come across as if my interest in you was purely fetishistic, which is _not_ the case, Martin, I promise!” 

“No, I—I know that,” says Martin, and gives a weak laugh. “There’s no way you would have nursed me through that bout of stomach flu just for the sake of—what do you call it? Umm, ‘yiffing’, isn’t that the term? I think I’ve heard—”

“Just, uh, just ‘sex’ is fine, I think,” says Jon, relieved. If Martin can make a joke, maybe it’s not so bad. “I really am sorry, Martin, I’ve been meaning to tell you the truth for _months,_ but it just never seemed the right time. Everything was going so well, you were feeling more comfortable with yourself, I didn’t want to make it about me, or put any kind of—of _expectations_ on you.” 

“Expectations?” Martin looks wide eyed again. 

“No, no,” Jon assures him, “I promise, I never actually expected anything to—to _happen._ I just wanted to be honest with you. You’ve shared so much with me, I didn’t want this to be a secret, but I—well, I’ve rather messed it up, haven’t I? I know it’s weird.” 

“It’s...yeah, it’s a bit weird,” says Martin. “But I don’t exactly have the high ground when it comes to weird, do I?” 

“No, I suppose we’re both rather odd, in our own way,” Jon says, and is further relieved when Martin laughs. “So, uhh, what do you...think? About it all.”

“I’m...not sure, honestly,” says Martin. “This is—it’s a lot to take on board, after I woke up this morning terrified you’d never want to talk to me again. Maybe we could both use some time to think about it?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Jon agrees. Martin’s hands have unclenched, and Jon reaches across to take one of them, with the same breath-held anxiety he had the first time he petted Martin’s fur on the full moon. Martin’s hand grips his tight.

“I, uh, I do have one question, though?” says Martin. 

“Of course.”

“Do you...actually _want_ to? Have sex with me, while I’m...like that?” He looks nervous, hesitant to even ask the question, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his eyes. 

“Martin I would never ask—” Jon starts to protest, but Martin cuts him off.

“But if it was an option,” he insists. “Would you want to?” 

“I...yes, I would,” Jon says hoarsely, and Martin nods thoughtfully, his expression unreadable.

*

For the next few weeks Jon doesn’t bring it up, gives Martin time and space to think. At least Jon _assumes_ he’s thinking about it. 

Jon is thinking about it, a lot. Mostly about the fact that he really screwed everything up. If he’d told Martin sooner, they probably never would have ended up in that situation, with Martin scared and ashamed, thinking himself a monster all over again. At least Martin didn’t react badly to the truth, didn’t seem to think Jon was disgusting or perverse—and yes, Jon _knew_ he wouldn’t, Martin’s too kind for that, but it was impossible to completely dismiss that fear. 

Jon doesn’t bring it up, but he looks at Martin, and thinks: _I told you that I want you to fuck me while you’re a wolf, and you didn’t run screaming out of the room._

He thinks about what he’s okay with, as the end result of this. He’s spent so long worrying about telling Martin, he never really considered the possible outcomes. What’s going to happen, of course, is that Martin will tell Jon that it’s absolutely not going to happen. And that’s all right, Jon thinks. He’ll be fine with that. Before Martin, this wasn’t a world where he could actually experience his fantasies; this is just a return to the status quo. 

_But it’s possible,_ his traitorous brain whispers, _It’s possible he’ll want it._

Except it _isn’t,_ Jon tells himself firmly. It’s not worth thinking about. It’s certainly not worth getting his hopes up about. And as the next full moon grows closer, and Martin doesn’t say anything about—any of it, he starts to worry that Martin won’t want him there at all. 

Martin isn’t acting any differently; he’s still coming over to Jon’s to cook dinner; teasing him for his pretentious taste in films; dragging him out for after work drinks with colleagues once a week. He still holds Jon’s hand while they’re walking down the street, and leans across to kiss the top of his head when they’re sitting on the sofa, with no hint of hesitation. But they haven’t talked about it, and it’s only a week to the next moon, and Jon can’t help the anxiety curdling in his stomach.

Finally, just three days before the full moon, Martin sends him a text asking if they can talk about ‘that thing’ tonight. All day Jon feels like he’s holding his breath, and he’s distracted at work, to the point that Sasha asks if he’s ill and Tim asks if he stayed up all night, with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. Jon gets to Martin’s flat a bit after six o’clock, and Martin looks as anxious as he feels, greeting him with a kiss and then drawing him over to sit on the sofa.

“I’ve been thinking about...what we talked about,” Martin says. “A _lot._ ”

“So have I.” 

“The whole, umm, anthropomorphic animal sex...thing? I’ve been looking into it a bit, and I, uh, I can’t really say that I understand it fully. But I understand that it’s your kink, and I’m—I want to help you explore it, if that’s still what you want.”

“Martin…” Jon breathes, scarcely able to believe what he’s hearing. A thrill of excitement lances through him, and he grasps Martin’s hand and kisses the jut of his knuckles. Martin is smiling at him, a bit uncertainly, and Jon kisses his hand again. 

“We need to talk it through first, though,” says Martin.

“We do,” Jon agrees.

“A _lot,”_ Martin insists. “It’s really risky, Jon. I’m not sure that a—a safe word will even be possible.”

“I’ve considered the risk,” Jon tells him. “And I’ve been researching consensual non-consent. This isn’t _precisely_ the same scenario, but I think it will help us lay the groundwork. The important thing is that we both want this. I don’t want you doing this if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

“I think us talking about it will help me get comfortable with it,” Martin says. “And as for, uh, _wanting_ it? I want you all the time. If I can give you this, I want to.” 

Jon releases Martin’s hand in favor of pulling his boyfriend into his arms, pressing a hard kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m not quite sure what I did to deserve you,” he tells Martin fiercely. “But I’m glad I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read on for the smutty conclusion! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we reach the end! Thanks to everyone for reading this ridiculously self-indulgent porn fluff! <3

It’s an odd feeling, going to Martin’s flat with the intention of having sex. Jon’s always found the concept of scheduling sex off-putting: the expectation that you _will_ be doing it tonight, regardless of whether you feel like it, or the assumption that just knowing you’re going to have sex will put you in the mood for it, which has never been Jon’s experience. Instead, sex hangs over the whole evening like a looming threat, the knowledge that he’ll need to _perform_ at some point, which of course tends to put even more of a damper on the whole experience and generally leads to frustration on all sides. 

He and Martin have gotten along very well so far by just going with it when the mood strikes them—or rather, when the mood strikes Jon; Martin is very insistent about that. This is the first time Jon has ever felt that tension—close to apprehension—on the Tube to Stockwell, with Martin’s shoulder pressed solidly against his. It’s not something he likes to associate with Martin, with _them._ His anxiety must bleed through in his body language, because Martin gently nudges him and says:

“All right?”

“Y-yes, fine,” Jon hurries to assure him. Martin raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“You know it’s fine if you’re having second thoughts, right? We don’t have to do anything.” 

“It’s not that,” Jon begins, then glances around the crowded carriage and gives Martin a pointed look. “Let’s talk about it when we get to yours?” 

“Sure,” says Martin, and wears a worried little frown for the rest of the journey. When they get to his flat, he starts heating up leftovers of the veggie pilaf he made yesterday. 

“Well?” he asks while the microwave hums. Jon, who’s fetching cutlery from the drawer, shrugs uncomfortably. 

“It’s not the sex thing,” he says. “I promise, really. I want to try it. It’s...the _expectation._ The whole sort of ‘prepare yourself to have a good time’ thing, it, ah, it rather has the opposite effect on me?”

“Right,” says Martin, frowning again. “I mean, I knew that. We’ve talked about it before. But this is your, umm, your kink? I assumed it was...different somehow?”

“So did I, I suppose,” Jon sighs. “I mean, the idea of my wildest sexual fantasies coming to life, that should be something I’m excited about. And I am! But it’s also...a lot of pressure. On both of us.” 

The microwave beeps insistently. Martin retrieves the dish of aromatic rice and vegetables, and starts spooning it onto two plates. 

“It would be better if we didn’t plan it, then?” he asks. “If we just agreed that it happens if it happens?” 

“I, uh, I think that would help, yes,” says Jon, already feeling the tension in his gut start to unspool. “I know we agreed we’d try it tonight, though—are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Jon, I’ve already told you, I don’t mind if we _never_ have sex. Sex is just the icing on the cake—a really _delicious_ cake with about four different kinds of chocolate, and even if there’s never any icing, I want to eat that cake for the rest of my life. Okay?” Martin is smiling at him in a patient way that says Jon is being ridiculous right now, but it’s all right because Martin loves him, insecurities and all. 

“Okay.” Jon can’t help a smile shaping his own mouth at the words. “So we’ll just...play it by ear, then?”

“Exactly. It happens if it happens.” 

*

They have dinner, and then Jon finishes a report for work while Martin watches Great British Menu; the chefs are from the North of England this week, and he commentates on the episode with fierce, regional pride that’s utterly charming. 

At last, Jon puts the file away and migrates across the sofa to lean against Martin’s side. Martin’s arm comes around him and Jon nestles close, enjoying Martin’s warmth, the subtle scent of him. Martin twists to press a kiss to his temple, and Jon squirms closer, stretching his arm around his boyfriend’s broad middle. Martin makes a happy sound and this time when he turns his head, Jon intercepts the kiss, lets it linger, soft and intimate.

“I love you,” he tells Martin, and is rewarded with a smile like sunshine and Martin’s other arm coming around him.

“I love you too.”

They kiss for a while, and with the assumption of sex no longer hanging over him, Jon can simply enjoy it. Contentment curls in his chest as he stretches out against Martin’s torso, their mouths pressed together. Martin’s teeth catch on his lower lip, his arms tightening suddenly, and Jon feels more than hears the low growl rumbling through Martin’s chest. It’s a primal, hungry sound, and it sparks heat low in his belly.

Martin breaks the kiss, gently easing Jon away from him. He’s flushed and disheveled, his eyes fever bright. 

“That time of the month,” he says apologetically, “I, uh, I think we should probably stop.”

“Unless we...don’t?” says Jon tentatively. Martin licks his lips unconsciously; his pupils are dilated, Jon can see, the blue of them almost swallowed by black. He’s hard in his trousers. 

“Are you sure?” Martin asks, his voice rough. 

Jon considers. He’s not aroused yet, not really, but there’s an ember there, stirred by the warm press of Martin’s body, his eager, teasing kisses, that possessive growl; an ember that’s willing to be stoked to flame. 

“I...ah, I think so, yes,” Jon tells him. “Keep kissing me, and we’ll see?” 

Martin does keep kissing him, deeper and more intense, swallowing the breath from Jon's mouth. Jon snatches quick breaths when their lips part, grasping at Martin’s shoulders for purchase, feeling almost dizzy. He climbs into Martin’s lap to get leverage. Finally taller than his boyfriend, he leans over with his hands in Martin’s hair to direct the kiss while Martin’s hands roam his back and sides. Martin kisses along his jaw down to his throat, buries his face in Jon’s neck and sucks wetly against his pulse point, nipping at the skin. The banked embers are flaring into hot arousal, and Jon grinds his hips in a circle against Martin’s erection. Martin growls again. 

“Perhaps we should stop for now,” Jon suggests, grasping Martin’s face in his hands. For a moment Martin looks like he doesn’t understand a word Jon’s saying, but then he shakes his head and blinks. 

“Right,” he says, his tone low and rough. “That’s probably a good idea, unless we want to have sex right now?” He sounds vaguely hopeful and Jon smiles, kissing his forehead.

“Later, remember?” He lets his voice drop low. “I’m yours, and you’re going to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.” He feels ridiculous saying it, but Martin takes a long shuddering breath and his fingers flex hard against Jon’s hips.

“Oh god,” he says, breathless. “Okay, get off me or I’m going to come in my trousers.” 

Jon does, feeling a bit smug; he squeezes his thighs together, enjoying the low simmer of arousal that coils through him, and turns back to the telly.

*

“Well, it’s about that time,” Martin says, an hour or so later. His eyes are bright and fierce, the way they always look right before he changes, his face flushed. The moon, tugging at his blood. 

“Right,” says Jon, a thrill of nerves going through. He always feels a bit awkward at this part, watching Martin shut the bedroom door behind him, timing how long is appropriate before going to fetch him, while trying not to listen to the pained sounds coming from inside.

“Do you, umm—” Martin starts, then breaks off. 

“What’s that?”

“Do you...want to see?” 

“Oh,” says Jon, all the breath rushing out of him. “Y-yes, I mean, if you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I minded. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I...uh, I guess it’s a night for trying new things?” 

Jon follows Martin into the bedroom and stands there awkwardly as Martin starts matter-of-factly removing his clothes, dropping them neatly into the laundry basket. 

“Should I, ahh…” He tugs at the hem of his shirt. Martin pulls his own t-shirt off over his head, his bare shoulders a constellation of freckles. 

“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” he says. 

Jon considers for a moment, then sits down to unlace his shoes. He undresses down to boxers and t-shirt; he feels good like this, the way he might dress for bed. Martin is entirely naked by now. He sits at the end of the bed, his fingers flexing against his knees, his foot tapping on the floor with something like impatience. Jon goes to sit beside him. 

“How does it feel?” he asks. Martin gives him a tight little smile. He’s flushed all over, tension standing out across his shoulders. 

“Sort of like a really bad itch, except under my skin. And also like I’ve had too much coffee.”

“It sounds unpleasant.”

“It is, a bit. You, umm, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, Jon. It’s probably not very nice to look at, either.” 

Jon doesn’t answer, just rests his hand on Martin’s wrist. He’s not going anywhere. Martin smiles again, more like himself this time.

“You remember what we talked about, right? If you...don’t like it, if you want to stop, do whatever you need to. _Make_ me stop. It doesn’t matter if you hurt me, I’ll be fine.”

By _'whatever you need to'_ , Martin is referring to his much loved chef’s knife; it’s in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, where Martin put it, and as far as Jon’s concerned, that’s exactly where it’s staying. He trusts Martin with this. Trusts Martin’s care for him, even when his rationality and self-control are frayed by the moon. 

“I remember,” Jon tells him. “And you remember, I’m giving my consent for tonight, no conditions. We’ll talk through it tomorrow, but whatever happens, I’m consenting to it. All right?”

“Right,” says Martin. His foot keeps tapping on the floor. 

“I love you,” Jon tells him. Martin lifts his hand and kisses his fingers.

“Love you, too.”

*

The change, when it comes, is rapid and unmistakable. 

It’s the exact reverse of what Jon accidentally witnessed before. Martin’s limbs lengthen and twist, joints popping; his shoulders swell, and his jaw begins extending with a loud cracking sound. He curls in on himself, making small and terrible noises, pained whimpers and gasps, as the skin all along his back twitches and blooms with thick fur. It’s amazing and horrible and beautiful all at the same time, and Jon can’t tear his eyes away as the wild wolf bursts from the skin of the man he loves. 

Jon doesn’t know what to do. He wants to touch Martin, offer some support, but he’s too afraid of hurting him at the same time. Instead he hovers, a helpless watcher, as Martin’s whole body flexes and squirms, the long tail pushing out from between his buttocks like a time lapse video of a sprouting plant, his ears shifting and elongating as his fur settles along its grain. 

Finally, Martin lies still except for the faint twitch of his limbs. A soft whimper escapes him. 

“Martin?” Jon says gently. “Are you all right?”

Martin’s eyes are dazed when he turns to Jon, his mouth open and panting, his tail limp against the mattress. He heaves himself across to Jon and collapses against him, breathing slowly. Jon pets the soft fur of Martin’s shoulders and back, murmuring gently to him, trying to offer what comfort he can.

It only takes Martin a few minutes to recover, and then he sits up, tail lifting and starting to wag as he snuffles at Jon’s face and neck. He licks a long, wet stripe up Jon’s cheek that makes him snort a rather undignified laugh. Martin keeps nuzzling at him, pushing into Jon’s space, and it’s just his usual affectionate wolfish behavior until one hairy arm wraps around Jon and Martin’s hand is hooking clumsily at his boxers, tugging at the elastic in an entirely uncoordinated way. 

“Oh!” Jon exclaims, and Martin licks his neck again with a low growl, sounding just like he did on the sofa earlier. _One track mind, eh?_ Jon thinks fondly. 

Jon’s heart is pounding, adrenaline sparking along his veins. Some small part of him wants to run out of the room, and apologize to Martin tomorrow. Martin would understand, he’d be fine with it. This was Jon’s idea, after all. Except that Martin is panting hot against his throat, his teeth snagging at the collar of Jon’s t-shirt, his hands grabbing roughly at Jon’s hips, the musky, animal scent of him filling Jon’s nostrils, and arousal sweeps over him in a dizzying rush, washing away the uncertainty, as he realizes _this is about to happen._

He wants this to happen. 

“Okay, Martin, wait—let me help,” he says, batting Martin’s clumsy wolf hands away from his underwear. He lifts up, bracing on the balls of his feet, and pulls his boxers down to his knees, then kicks them the rest of the way off. Martin doesn’t hesitate even a moment, sliding off the bed with an eager yelp to crouch on the floor. Jon leans back on his hands and shivers as he watches the great hairy bulk of Martin’s shoulders hunch over his lap. He’s already wet from earlier, and the sight of Martin’s heavy muzzle dropping between his thighs sends heat rolling through him. Martin’s breath is hot against his cunt, and Jon aches to be touched. 

Martin’s tongue licks him from arsehole to cock, muscular and _perfect,_ and Jon can’t help the moan that escapes him. He spreads his legs wider in encouragement, and Martin licks him again, keeps licking, his long tongue sliding hungrily between the lips of Jon’s cunt as if he’s seeking some delicious morsel, his snout rubbing against Jon’s cock, the fur soft and faintly ticklish, making him squirm. The sounds he's making are wet and greedy and obscenely hot. Jon’s mouth falls open as he looks down at his werewolf boyfriend, buried between his legs, licking him open with absolute enthusiasm. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“Ah, Martin!” he gasps, torn between holding himself up so he can keep watching this, and tangling his fingers in Martin’s thick fur. His body makes the decision for him, blood rushing in his ears, making him light headed. He lets himself fall back flat on the bed, and digs his hands into the thick ruff of fur around Martin’s neck, urging him even closer as Martin’s tongue sends waves of hot pleasure through him. 

“Please, please,” he pants, and Martin whines and dives deeper between his thighs. Jon feels the hard, smooth press of Martin’s teeth against his cunt, and that sends arousal spiking through him, hot waves cresting higher and higher until his whole body spasms and he comes, panting and moaning as Martin’s tongue keeps licking him deep and deeper, Martin’s snout still rubbing relentlessly over his cock. 

“Ahh, Martin, stop!” he whimpers at last, as it becomes too much, his body quivering with overstimulation. He sits up, pushing at Martin’s shoulders. Martin takes the hint, leaning back to look up at him, his eyes bright and hungry. The fur of his muzzle is wet and shining with Jon’s slick, and he licks his chops with something between hunger and satisfaction. Jon finds himself laughing helplessly, post-orgasmic bliss rushing through his veins, and he leans down to take Martin’s huge head in his hands, kissing him between the eyes. 

“Wow,” he says, “You’re a very good boyfriend, do you know that?” 

Martin gives a growling yelp and without warning he leaps up onto the bed beside Jon, straddling his thighs the way Jon did to him on the sofa earlier. Martin’s cock is almost pressed against his belly, wet and shiny where it thrusts out of its sheath. Jon’s mouth waters at the sight of it. Martin nuzzles against Jon’s cheek possessively. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Jon tells him, and Martin gives another low, hungry growl and nips at his ear. “But I want to suck you off first, okay?” 

Martin’s ability to communicate is limited, in this form, but he’s very capable of making it known if he likes or dislikes something, and judging by the eager sounds he makes and the way he licks Jon’s cheek, he both understands and is very enthusiastic about the idea. He stays sitting where he is as Jon wriggles out from under him and turns onto his hands and knees so he’s face to face with Martin’s cock. He takes the slick head of it into his mouth. It’s thick, hot and musky, and Jon eases further onto it, feeling the stretch in his jaw and at the corners of his mouth. He braces on one hand, and uses the other to cradle Martin’s balls, which are huge and covered in soft fur. 

Martin whimpers and his hips thrust, pushing his cock further into Jon’s mouth, deep enough that the head hits the back of his throat. He chokes noisily, tears springing to his eyes, but doesn’t back down as Martin keeps fucking his throat, growling and panting with savage pleasure. He paws at Jon's back and shoulders, his nails scratching clumsily, and the thought that they might _mark_ sends a spike of arousal through Jon. He sucks frantically on the cock filling his mouth, feels drool sliding down his chin and fresh heat rising between his thighs. Part of him wants to just let Martin keep using his mouth, fuck Jon’s face and come down his throat so Jon can lick his cock clean. But a bigger part of him wants Martin to _fuck_ him, so Jon reluctantly pulls off. Martin whines and tries to push his cock back into Jon’s mouth, but Jon sits back out of reach. 

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” he asks. “Stuff my cunt with your big wolf cock and show me who I belong to?” 

It’s a lot less embarrassing dirty talking Martin when he’s like this. Jon can pretend he’s the protagonist of some erotic story, sexy and uninhibited, irresistible to a horny werewolf and able to tame the beast with his body, rather than...who he really is. It’s a rather exhilarating pretense. He lets his legs fall open and uses his fingers to spread the lips of his cunt, rubbing his thumb through the slick mess and circling it around his cock. Martin whines impatiently, saliva dripping from his lolling tongue. 

“Come on then,” Jon challenges, and spreads his legs wider. Martin doesn’t take any further encouragement. He scrambles across the mattress and up Jon’s body, his big hands pinning Jon’s shoulders hard. Martin’s face is close to his, his eyes focused and hungry, panting hot and wet against Jon’s cheek. His whole heavy bulk presses down on Jon until he can't move—can barely breathe—and a moan escapes him at the feeling of being utterly helpless, at the mercy of the beast. Jon sinks into that feeling, lets himself go limp with his fingers curled in Martin's fur.

The head of Martin’s cock nudges against his hole, and pushes in without hesitation. It’s big, even bigger than it felt in Jon’s mouth, thick and relentless. Martin thrusts hard into him, his cock stretching Jon’s cunt as it forces its way deeper, deeper inside him and Jon hears a low whine escape his throat. It is a brutal, aching stretch that punches the breath from his lungs at the same time it sets his cunt throbbing with arousal. 

“Martin,” he moans, breathless. 

“Martin!” he gasps as Martin’s hips set a merciless rhythm, his thick cock forcing Jon open with every thrust. Martin’s balls slap against his arse, and the soft fur of Martin’s belly rubs teasingly over his cock, sending waves of pleasure through him that slowly build in counterpoint to the aching, overwhelming fullness in his cunt. 

Jon wraps his legs as best he can around Martin’s middle, grabs handfuls of fur at his shoulders and just holds on, letting Martin fuck him deep and savage, letting Martin _own_ him, his hot breath on Jon’s face, both their bodies vibrating with each low, possessive rumble through his chest. His mind flies, ridiculously, to Little Red Riding Hood, what he told Martin about the innocent young thing being taken by a savage beast. The thought makes him laugh, breathless and euphoric. 

Jon comes with a helpless groan, hanging onto Martin for dear life, feeling his cunt clench desperately around Martin’s cock, his hips bucking frantically against the solid heat of Martin’s body. Martin growls and redoubles his efforts, pounding into him even harder, his clumsy hands grasping at Jon’s upper arms, nails scraping his skin. Jon, boneless and overstimulated, gives a low moan as Martin’s teeth clamp with bruising force around his shoulder. 

Martin gives a low whine, his hips thrusting in a frantic, uncoordinated way, and Jon feels Martin’s cock swell inside him, growing—impossibly—even _bigger._ He realizes with a start that Martin is knotting. He should have _known_ this would happen—it's only featured in every bloody piece of anthro wolf porn he's ever seen—yet it hadn’t occurred to him that it actually _might._ Jon hears himself cry out breathlessly as Martin’s knot balloons inside him. It's too much, feels like it’s going to split him open, and then Martin is snarling against his shoulder and coming. There's so much of it, enough that Jon can actually _feel_ it flooding his cunt in thick spurts. 

“Oh, god, Martin,” he gasps, as Martin’s hips slow and then stutter to a halt. Martin whines and noses into his neck, licking his jaw gently. Jon releases his death grip on Martin’s shoulders and pats at his own shoulder where Martin’s teeth clamped down, checking for blood; his skin is indented with tooth marks, but Martin hasn’t broken the skin.

Jon relaxes and pets gently through Martin’s fur, the great, hairy bulk of Martin’s body resting on top of him like a weighted blanket. Martin keeps nuzzling and licking at him for a few moments, making happy sounds as Jon strokes his shoulders. Then he tries to shift his weight away, and gives a confused growl as the knot catches in Jon’s cunt, making him hiss with discomfort. Martin tries to tug away from him again, and Jon grasps Martin’s face between his hands, holding him steady.

“Ahh! No, Martin, you—you have to stay here for a while. Okay?”

Martin makes a grumbling little whine and then relaxes down on top of Jon, shifting slightly so most of his weight is resting on his own shoulder. He yawns broadly, clearly content enough to stay where he is at Jon’s request. 

Jon considers his situation. The knot feels enormous inside him, every twitch of a limb making it catch and sending shivers of sensation through him. He doesn’t think moving is an option until the knot goes down, which could be...half an hour? An hour? He’s not sure. He should have researched how long it lasts in wolves. It’s not a bad position to be stuck in, though. Martin makes for a very large and warm blanket, occasionally nuzzling sweetly at Jon’s face and neck, and he seems perfectly happy to lie there in post-orgasmic bliss.

 _After he filled me with his come,_ Jon thinks, _and knotted me so none of it could escape. Trying to impregnate me._

That’s not a physiological possibility—Jon’s long since assured that—but the idea of it is intensely hot, and it sends arousal pulsing down through his groin. He squirms, the knot tugging at his insides in a way that’s both painful and pleasurable, his cock hard and throbbing against Martin’s furry belly. He needs to come again, he decides. He braces himself against Martin and circles his hips slowly, savoring the aching swell of the knot inside him and the teasing slide of Martin’s fur, now wet with Jon's slick, against his cunt. Martin keeps nuzzling and licking at him as he does, and it doesn’t take long for Jon to climax. This orgasm is weak, almost painful, and it wrings him out slowly, leaves him panting, his cunt flexing around Martin’s knot. He sighs, and kisses Martin’s snout.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. “That was amazing.”

*

Jon doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, but he wakes feeling safe and warm, with Martin draped half over him. At some point the knot has deflated and his cunt feels so empty, stretched and aching and unpleasantly sticky; Jon ignores the urge to get up and take a shower, and curls back under Martin’s warm, furry bulk. 

He wakes again in the early hours as Martin’s body reverts to human form. Martin’s awake, and he’s making tiny, pained sounds as the process reverses itself, clearly trying not to disturb Jon. 

“Sorry,” he manages to growl out as his jaw pulls itself back into place, and starts to disengage. Jon wraps both arms firmly around him and holds on. 

“I’m here, Martin,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Martin gives a shuddering laugh that’s half a sob, and clutches him with trembling fingers, and Jon holds him until he’s lying still once again, pale and human and exhausted. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, holding Martin close against him. “It’s okay.” 

“Are you all right?” Martin asks, his voice hoarse and weak. 

“More than all right,” Jon tells him. “Last night was...wonderful.” 

“Oh,” says Martin, his voice hoarse but pleased. “That’s—that’s good!”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Jon asks. Martin gives him a soft smile. 

“Of course,” he says. “I had you.”

*

Jon sleeps, and when he next wakes there are sounds of morning traffic coming from beyond the blackout curtains, a tiny sliver of light shining in where they’re not entirely closed. Martin is still asleep, curled in his arms, his face peaceful and untroubled, and Jon feels such a vast rush of love for this man that his heart aches. 

He takes a moment to take stock of how he feels. Physically exhausted, his muscles worn out, his nether regions sore and stretched but in a way that’s deeply satisfying. His shoulder is tender where Martin bit down on it, small dark bruises raising against his skin. Jon feels something warm stir in his chest at the sight of it, the mark of being _owned,_ being loved by his wolf. There are thin, shallow scratches stinging across his torso and arms from Martin’s nails, and Jon likes the way they look on him. 

Martin stirs at his movement, and when Jon looks down his eyes are open, blue and sleepy, looking at him with such love that Jon could cry. 

“Morning,” says Martin, and Jon leans down to kiss his cheek. He feels brave, loved, happier than he can ever remember being. He can’t believe he’s been so lucky, but here he is, and he’s never going to take it for granted. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “How would you feel about moving in together?” 

“That depends,” Martin says with a teasing smile. “Would you let me on the sofa?”

“I would," Jon laughs, and kisses him again. "In fact, I might even let you in the bed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed.


End file.
